


You Might Just as Well Be Blind

by ArwaMachine



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, BAMF Mrs. Hudson, Eventual Smut, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Frottage, Happy Ending, It's For a Case, Jealous Sherlock, John is in a relationship with OFC but don't you worry about it, M/M, Non-Platonic Cuddling, Oblivious John, Platonic Cuddling, Sharing a Bed, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:08:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 56,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28272138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwaMachine/pseuds/ArwaMachine
Summary: When a serial killer starts targeting couples, Sherlock and John must do what they have to do in order to get to the bottom of things.Unfortunately, John already has a girlfriend. Surely pretending to be in a relationship with Sherlock won't pose any problems with his relationship, will it?
Relationships: John Watson/Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 223
Kudos: 338
Collections: 2020 New Years Fic Exchange, Chelle's Fic Recommendations





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sherlock_is_actually_a_girls_name](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock_is_actually_a_girls_name/gifts).



John’s cab dropped him off at Baker Street just after nine in the morning, and he began blearily climbing the steps up into the flat. John always worried about what sort of scene he might return to at Baker Street after spending the night away. One could never really tell with Sherlock. If he was on a case, he could fill the flat with all sorts of unpleasant things—photographs of rotting corpses, assorted human and animal body parts in various states of decay that Sherlock insisted were “experiments,” and once, inexplicably, nearly two dozen mice. John never fully understood the mice. However, Sherlock managed to do terrible things to the flat when not on a case as well—shooting the walls, abusing the furniture, taking apart the refrigerator. It nearly made John not want to spend the night at his girlfriend’s flat, just so he could keep an eye on things.

Nearly.

When John returned, the flat seemed to be in one piece, with no new holes in the walls and no evidence of anything having been recently on fire. Sherlock was fully dressed—an improvement from his condition when John left—and sitting cross-legged atop the table in the sitting room, typing away intently at a computer. If he heard John enter, he didn’t let on. The only thing amiss in the flat aside from Sherlock sitting on the table, which wasn’t particularly uncommon in and of itself, was that Sherlock was once again using John’s computer instead of his own, despite John’s numerous instructions not to.

“I’m going to start taking my computer with me when I go to Gilly’s,” John said, hanging his coat by the door.

“No you won’t,” Sherlock said. “You prefer to travel light.”

John decided not to give Sherlock the satisfaction of knowing that he was right. Sherlock already knew he was right, anyway. “How long did it take you to guess my password this time?” John asked.

“Approximately three-point-four seconds,” Sherlock said, his eyes still on the glowing screen. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but you are getting worse at selecting passwords.”

“Not sure why I even bother,” John said. He sank into his chair, cracking his neck. Although it was nice to spend the time at Gilly’s flat, her mattress was rubbish, and he always left the flat feeling as if he spent the night with his back twisted into a pretzel. It didn’t help that Gilly was an incessant cuddler, and her extremities were perpetually freezing. It had to be a blood flow thing; he considered slipping iron supplements into her tea.

“You’ve missed several important case-related developments,” Sherlock said. His fingers flew over the keyboard. “While you were _away._ ” He said this last bit pointedly, as if John choosing to spend a night with his girlfriend was the most unforgivable of actions.

“There’s a case on?” John asked. When he left the night before, Sherlock was in his usual between-cases funk, pouting in his dressing gown and generally being insufferable. It was one of the reasons a night in Gilly’s terrible bed seemed appealing.

“Okay,” Sherlock said. “You’ve missed _all_ case-related developments.” His fingers never paused along the keys, but John could see Sherlock’s face turn ever so slightly sour. “Your insistence on romantic connections is negatively impacting your utility as a helpmate.”

John’s head was pounding just a bit too much to deal with Sherlock’s little snipes at the moment. “My apologies for attempting to be human,” he said. “Unlike some people. Care to share the details anyway?”

“You aren’t going to like it,” Sherlock said.

“Does it involve sewers?” John asked. The two of them worked a case about a month ago that had them crawling around in a sewer for much longer than John liked. He saw some things in that sewer that rivaled the horrors of Afghanistan.

“Not so far as I can tell,” Sherlock said.

“Bloated corpses?” John asked, rubbing at his eyes. “Venomous snakes?”

“Holiday rental homes.”

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. “Yeah,” John said. “Sounds awful.”

“There have been a string of murders in holiday rental homes,” Sherlock said. “Different homes, spread out across the country. However, the murders are all committed in a similar manner—the victims are found lying on their beds—their throats are slashed, their hands are severed, and their eyes are gouged out.”

“So it’s the same person doing all the killings?” John asked. “Some sort of serial killer?”

Sherlock grinned, looking up from the computer at last. “Exactly.”

John smiled back, despite himself. “There it is,” he said.

“There what is?” Sherlock asked.

“Your serial killer smile,” John said.

“I don’t have a serial killer smile,” Sherlock said, but his eyes dropped.

“Yes you do,” John said. “I haven’t seen it in a while. Not since the strangler we had last fall. It’s nice to see it again.”

“I’ll take your word for it, John,” Sherlock said to the computer. He seemed to be fiddling purposelessly with the keyboard.

“It’s completely inappropriate, the smile,” John said. “But it’s still nice to see.”

John was certain he saw the corner of Sherlock’s lip twitch up into a little smile. He was about to ask Sherlock how specifically they were to be involved in these holiday home murders when a tiny knocking sounded at the door, followed by a cheery _yoo-hoo_.

Mrs. Hudson floated into the room before either of them could ask her in. “Just checking to see if you boys fancied a cuppa,” she chirped. She frowned as she saw Sherlock on the table. “Sherlock,” she said, “didn’t your mother ever tell you not to climb on the furniture?”

“Probably,” Sherlock said, his fingers flying over the keyboard once more. “I certainly wasn’t listening at the time.”

Mrs. Hudson swiveled, pretending as if she only just noticed John in his chair. “Oh,” she said, “hello dear. I didn’t realize you were back. Did you have a nice time away last night?” Her smile was too wide to be genuine.

“Nope,” Sherlock answered. “He has a crick in his neck and a stiff back and his sleep was approximately thirty percent more fitful than it is when he sleeps in his own bed. He’ll need a nap just after lunch, which will delay his sleep onset tonight by nearly an hour. As such, he’ll be tired again tomorrow as well. A vicious cycle that will resolve itself just in time for him to stay the night away from Baker Street again.” Sherlock punctuated his words with a firm click on the keyboard. “Also, they didn’t shag.”

John pinched at his nose. “Jesus. Sherlock.”

Mrs. Hudson’s smile never faltered. “Sorry to hear that, dear,” she said. “Things starting to go a bit dry in the relationship?”

“No,” John said, eyes darting from Mrs. Hudson to Sherlock, not sure to whom he most felt he needed to defend his relationship. “No. It’s just...not in the mood.” He smiled, in partial disbelief that he was explaining the rationale for a lack of shagging to his elderly landlady.

“Didn’t shag last time either,” Sherlock said.

John wondered, if he closed his eyes, whether he might wake up to find that this was all a bad dream.

Mrs. Hudson carried on smiling at him. “That one doesn’t like to stay here, now does she?” Her tone bordered on pity.

“Ah,” John said, too tired by half to be having this conversation. “No. Not particularly.” In truth, John had long since learned to keep his girlfriends as far from Sherlock as possible. Sherlock was a tough pill to swallow at the best of times, but something about John’s girlfriends really seemed to draw the insufferable bastard out of him. Sherlock pulled out all the stops—brutal deductions, hateful comments, astoundingly accurate insights into childhood trauma—and some of the women hadn’t even made it through a full evening before they were out the door, calling Sherlock a bastard and John an arse, despite the fact that John had nothing to do with any of it. As such, as soon as John figured that there might be something of a future with Gilly, he did his best to limit her interactions with Sherlock as much as he could.

“Her flat is nicer, anyway,” John said. It wasn’t. It was small and cluttered and confusingly bright and littered with so many photographs John felt as if he was being stared at by a stadium filled with Gilly’s friends and family.

“Nope,” Sherlock said.

John sighed. He honestly wasn’t sure why he bothered.

“Well,” Mrs. Hudson said. “We miss you when you’re away. Sherlock especially.”

John glanced at Sherlock. He felt his lips quirk into a smile. “Is that so?”

“Oh of course,” Mrs. Hudson said. “He won’t stop whining about it.”

“ _Whining_ ,” John repeated, his smile widening.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Didn’t you say something about _tea_?”

Mrs. Hudson drifted into the kitchen. “Like a little child,” she called. “Between you and me, I don’t think he knows what to do without you, John.”

“Doesn’t know what to do without me.” John grinned at Sherlock, who seemed to be fidgeting a bit on the table.

“The tea is really quite urgent,” Sherlock said.

John could hear Mrs. Hudson filling the electric kettle, fiddling with the teacups. “He causes such a ruckus up here,” she said. “Sometimes I think he does it just to bring me upstairs so he’ll have someone to talk to.”

“I’m not sure what the point of that would be,” Sherlock said, shoving John’s laptop to the side and flinging himself off the table, “when you seem constitutionally incapable of _shutting up_.” With that, he strode down the hallway, disappearing into his bedroom for clearly no reason whatsoever.

John chuckled to himself, cracking his neck once more and sinking into his chair. As chaotic as it could be, it was good to be home.

Mrs. Hudson appeared at his side. “Are you really serious about that one?” she stage-whispered, gesturing vaguely towards the window, in the direction of wherever it was she assumed Gilly lurked while John wasn’t with her.

“Uh,” John said. “Yeah. Fairly serious. We’ve been together for nearly a year now. Seems to be going well.” Mrs. Hudson’s dubious expression made him feel the need to double down on his assertions. “Really well.”

“And you’re sure that _she’s_ the one?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “That one? Her?”

John sighed. He was certainly too tired to be having _this_ conversation. Again. “Well,” he said, “I don’t know about _the one_ , but we get on fairly well. We’re having a good time.”

“It’s not _just_ the not shagging that has me asking...” Mrs. Hudson started.

“We…” John could feel his face growing hot. “Shag. We shag enough.”

“She’s rather a lot,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Isn’t she?”

“I—”

“And that _laugh,_ Mrs. Hudson said, eyes widening. “It’ll rattle your brain. I don’t know how you put up with it.”

John’s head was spinning. “I—” he started again. He didn’t mind her laugh _that_ much. “It’s fine—”

“And you know what it does to poor Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said. “You know how he hates it when you’re not here.”

John pressed his eyes closed, shook his head. “Are you suggesting,” he said, “that I ought to reconsider my relationship with my girlfriend simply because Sherlock prefers me to be around constantly?”

“He just works so much better when you’re around,” Mrs. Hudson said. “The both of you do.”

“Perhaps the problem could also be solved if _Sherlock_ got a girlfriend,” John said, “instead of insisting upon ruining _my_ romantic life.”

Mrs. Hudson threw back her head, as if John just made the cleverest of jokes. “You know he doesn’t go for that sort of thing,” she said. “Girlfriends.”

“Right,” John said. “Married to his work. Sentiment is a chemical defect. All that.” How could he forget? Sherlock had made his lack of interest in romantic relationships—and romantic relationships with John in particular—abundantly clear the first day they met. He had certainly seen to it that John possessed no confusion on the topic. Message received.

“Well,” Mrs. Hudson said. “It’s not really just that, you know…”

“ _Mrs. Hudson,_ ” Sherlock’s voice boomed from the back of the flat. “ _TEA._ ”

Mrs. Hudson scurried back to the kettle and Sherlock re-emerged from the bedroom. He sat himself in his chair with John’s laptop, clicking at the keyboard and looking cross. He left his teacup largely ignored after Mrs. Hudson set the steaming cup beside him.

“Think about it,” Mrs. Hudson whispered at John, tapping him on the shoulder before disappearing from the flat.

_I won’t,_ John thought, but said nothing, sipping at his tea. He could feel his body starting to relax, settling into the comfort of being back at the flat.

“So,” John said. “How exactly are we involved with these murders?”

“We catch the killer,” Sherlock said. “The papers are calling this one the Holiday Killer, due to the murders taking places in the holiday homes.” He considered. “Not the most creative of names, but on par with expectations regarding the media’s ability to generate ideas.”

“Right,” John said. “Catching this Holiday Killer, then. Checking out the crime scenes, interviewing the families of the victims? That sort of thing?”

“We could,” Sherlock said, a flash of mystery glinting in his eye. “Or we could take a more direct approach.”

“Which is…?”

“To see if we can’t get the killer to come to us,” Sherlock grinned and passed the computer over to John. “What do you think of this cottage?”

On the screen was the rental listing for a quaint stone cottage, the kind any tourist might jump at the chance to stay in, the kind that John knew would be a bit cramped and drafty inside. He clicked through the pictures on the website. “Looks nice,” he said. He checked the location of the cottage. Keswick. “Are we going on holiday, then?”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said.

“For how long?”

“Until an attempt is made on our life.”

“Right,” John said. “So the plan is to hide ourselves away in some rental cottage until a serial killer comes to find us.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock said.

John checked the nightly rate on the cabin and raised his eyebrows. “You know,” John said, “Gilly works for a travel agency. She might be able to get us a discount on the rental.”

Sherlock’s facial expression told John everything he needed to know about Sherlock’s thoughts on the plan.

“Or not,” John said.

“I have a theory that the killer is associated in some capacity with one of the rental companies,” Sherlock said. “It is difficult to tell, because each rental property is listed on multiple company websites, but I’ve narrowed the choices down to two and believe that this one— _Cozy Cottages_ —is the most likely candidate. I can share my decision-making algorithm with you if you’d like.”

“Not necessary,” John said, handing the laptop back to Sherlock. “So. You’ve got the rental company narrowed down. But how exactly is the killer going to want to come after us over all the other people renting cottages at the moment?”

Sherlock looked a bit like he was trying to hide himself behind the computer. “That’s the bit you won’t like,” he said.

“Oh?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “So far,” he said, “all of the victims have been couples.”

John blinked. “Okay,” he said.

“Which means,” Sherlock continued, “it can be reasonably assumed that the killer is targeting couples.”

“Right,” John said.

Sherlock looked up from the computer. “ _Exclusively_ couples,” he said, with a _catch-my-drift_ expression.

“Yeah,” John said. “That’s what it sounds like.”

Sherlock sighed. He massaged his temples. “In order to lure this killer to us,” he said, “you and I will need to convince him that we are a couple.”

John blinked. He could tell his mouth had fallen open.

“I said you wouldn’t like it,” Sherlock said, returning his attention to the computer.

John blinked again. All he seemed capable of doing was blinking.

Sherlock closed the laptop with a flourish. “The cottage is booked,” he said. “We leave tomorrow.”

John blinked some more. He shook his head, trying to jostle his brain back into functioning.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile. He tapped out a number and waited, crossing his legs daintily as he held the mobile to his ear.

“A couple,” John said, finally finding words. “You and I. We need to convince the killer that we’re a couple.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said.

A faint voice chirped through the speaker of Sherlock’s mobile, and Sherlock’s face shifted into the normal-person smile he wore when he was trying to trick people into giving him information. “Hello,” Sherlock crooned into the phone. “I just reserved a cottage through your website for my boyfriend and I. I have a few questions and just one or two small requests.”

“A couple,” John repeated.

Sherlock nodded at John. “Of course,” he said into the phone, his normal-person voice friendlier than Sherlock had ever been to another human. “The reservation is under Holmes. It’s for two. My boyfriend and I.”

“And how exactly,” John asked, “are we going to convince the killer that we’re a couple?”

Sherlock moved the mobile away from his face. “By engaging in stereotypical couple activities,” he said, looking a bit exasperated that he was even having to explain this. “Holding hands. Spending time together. Looking as if we tolerate the other’s company without actively wanting to murder each other. That sort of thing.” He brought the mobile back to his ear, the fake smile returning to his face. “Yes. Hello. Still here.”

“Sherlock,” John said. “I have an actual girlfriend.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock said, covering up the speaker on his mobile with a hand. “So you should excel at this.” He returned to his conversation. “Your website says that the kitchen comes stocked with an assortment of teas,” he said. “Is Earl Grey included? My boyfriend _insists_ upon drinking Earl Grey tea every morning.”

John _did_ enjoy Earl Grey tea, but there were currently more pressing issues on his mind. “I can’t be pretending to be in a relationship with you when I’m in an _actual relationship_ ,” he hissed.

Sherlock ignored him. “The tub in the bathroom,” Sherlock said into his mobile, his voice smooth and silvery, “what is the approximate size of that? My boyfriend likes to take long baths, you see, and…” Sherlock giggled, actually _giggled_ , “I like to join him.”

John dug his hands through his hair, mostly because he was fairly certain his head was about to explode and he figured he ought to try to hold it together. “Is that going to be a _part_ of it?” he asked.

“Only if you want it to be, John.” Sherlock winked.

John wondered if he was having a stroke.

“Last question, I promise,” Sherlock smiled into his mobile. “What size is the bed? The website said queen-sized, but I wanted to confirm. My boyfriend is a _notorious_ bed-hog…”

“That’s not even true,” John said, before he had the chance to consider that his argument was the very definition of ridiculous.

“Thank you _so_ much,” Sherlock said, nearly twisting sideways in his chair as he slipped further into character. “My boyfriend and I are _so_ excited to spend some time at your cottage. It looks just _lovely_ in the pictures. So _romantic_.” With that, Sherlock hung up his mobile and returned to himself, sitting upright in his chair, the expressiveness of his face slipping back to a blank slate.

John’s hands were still in his hair. He imagined that the expression on his face could best be described as _horrified._

“In case you were worried,” Sherlock said, “the rental company confirmed that the bed is, in fact, queen-sized.”

“What the _hell_?” John asked.

Sherlock waggled his mobile in his hand. “If the Holiday Killer indeed works for the rental company in some capacity,” he said, “he has just been provided with substantial evidence that a couple has booked a remote cottage in Keswick. I thought it best to increase our odds that the killer would come after us. _I_ would be keen on killing us, if I were him.”

“Not exactly what I’m talking about,” John said. “You’re asking me to be your _boyfriend_.”

“Just for the case,” Sherlock said.

“And you realize,” John said, “we’ll have to…” he gestured between the two of them, a flail of arms that communicated nothing.

“Spend time together?” Sherlock asked.

“No,” John said. “Well. Yes. But not that. We’ll have to…”

“Touch?” suggested Sherlock.

“That,” John said. “And…”

“Kiss?” asked Sherlock.

“Oh god.” John’s hands were back in his hair. “ _Kiss_?”

“And you’ll have to act like you can tolerate the very idea of being in any sort of relationship with me?” Sherlock snapped. “I’m sure you can manage it for a day or so, but if it starts giving you internal bleeding, _do_ let me know.”

John shook his head, a stab of guilt rushing through him. “That’s not what I meant.”

Sherlock seemed unconvinced. “Isn’t it?” he asked. He popped out of his chair and started down the hallway. “Best go pack. Suppose I should keep physical proximity at a minimum until absolutely necessary.”

“Shit,” John muttered, heaving himself out of his chair and taking off after him. “Sherlock. That’s not what I meant by it.”

When he got to Sherlock’s bedroom, Sherlock already had a suitcase flung open on his bed and was rifling through an array of suits in his armoire.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” John said. He wasn’t exactly sure how—in a situation wherein Sherlock unilaterally decided that John was to be his fake boyfriend— _John_ was the one apologizing.

“You didn’t upset me,” Sherlock said, grabbing an armful of suits and hurling them in the general direction of his suitcase.

“I see that,” John said, watching a pair of trousers slide off Sherlock’s bed and onto the floor. “What I meant was…”

“That even so much as _pretending_ to be romantically involved with me causes you physical pain?” Three sets of shoes, in quick succession, were lobbed at the suitcase.

“That’s not it,” John said, dodging a shoe as it bounced off the wall.

“That you would rather allow a serial killer to go on murdering innocent people than to have even a single soul believe that you and I are _dating_?” Sherlock was at his dresser now, digging through his socks in a manner that John knew meant Sherlock would have to reorganize everything later.

“That’s certainly not it,” John said. “Sherlock. Being a couple, doing the sorts of things that couples do, it _means_ something, even if it’s just pretending.”

“That’s very romantic of you, John,” Sherlock said, his back to John as socks flew from his dresser. “But it’s just behavior. Physical touch. It is rote. Acting. It means nothing.”

“ _You_ might see it that way,” John said, tamping down the spike of disappointment at Sherlock’s assertion that the two of them touching, and apparently _kissing_ , would mean nothing. “But I’m not sure Gilly will. And, besides, it’s hard to disconnect the physical from the emotional. I know you don’t exactly go in for this sort of thing, but it can be hard to be physically close to someone without…”

“I am fully aware of the impact of physical contact on the release of neurotransmitters in the brain,” Sherlock said. “There have been numerous studies conducted with lab rats. Oxytocin in the presumed culprit. It is a physiological response, nothing more. If we are aware of it, we won’t be tempted to fall victim to it.”

“Right,” John said. “But…”

“So since we so clearly feel nothing for the other,” Sherlock said, “it stands to reason that any development in emotional connection developed during this case can be attributed solely to an influx in neurotransmitters rather than genuine connection.”

“Right,” John said. _And if it is less clear that we feel nothing for the other?_ John wondered but certainly did not say out loud. He was feeling that stab of disappointment again, much sharper this time.

“Of course,” Sherlock continued, “if there is something so irreconcilably appalling about being in a relationship with _me_ …”

“Jesus,” John said. “No. I’ll do it, okay? I’ll be your bloody boyfriend for this case.”

“That’s very noble of you, John,” Sherlock said, his voice stiff. “Your sacrifices for the greater good are unmatched.”

“Yeah,” John said, a bit reeling that he had just promised to be Sherlock’s boyfriend, although certainly not in the same way he had once hoped. “Well. Never be it said I wasn’t willing to help.”

“Perhaps Mycroft can be convinced to arrange a knighthood for you,” Sherlock snapped.

“You can drop the sarcasm whenever you’d like,” John said. “I agreed to the thing, didn’t I?”

“Under duress,” Sherlock muttered.

John sighed, watching Sherlock as he stood in front of his dresser, stiff as a board and clearly poking through nothing. Despite Sherlock’s barbed comments, he seemed vulnerable at the moment, rejected and a bit hurt. John felt a pang of guilt and cursed himself inwardly as he walked over to Sherlock. Cautiously, gently, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, his hands slipping around Sherlock’s slim chest. He rested his cheek against the nape of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock smelled nice, like warm aftershave and expensive shampoo and just a hint of cigarette smoke.

“What are you doing?” asked Sherlock.

“I believe this is how boyfriends apologize to each other,” John said.

John could feel Sherlock chuckle against him. “We aren’t boyfriends just yet, John,” Sherlock said.

“Not with _that_ attitude,” John said.


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re breaking up with me?” Gilly cried. She already had tears brimming in her large eyes.

John nearly choked on his coffee. “What?” he said. “No. God. No.”

“You just told me Sherlock asked you to be his boyfriend,” Gilly said. A fat tear rolled down her cheek.

John realized that this was _not_ a conversation they ought to have had in public. The other patrons of the cafe were currently looking at John as if he recently committed some sort of atrocity. John could feel his face growing red.

“ _Fake_ boyfriend,” John said. “It’s for a case.” He wasn’t sure if he should be directing these explanations at Gilly or the half a dozen or so people currently giving him the stink-eye.

“ _Fake boyfriend_ my arse,” Gilly said, blowing her nose noisily into a napkin. “I knew it was only a matter of time before the two of you…”

“Nope,” John said. “Nope. Not a matter of time. The two of us aren’t...anything. Everything is exactly as it was before.”

Gilly said something into her napkin, something wet and sloppy that John couldn’t quite make out. He had a feeling that asking her to repeat herself in this state might be considered rude, so instead he reached over the table and grabbed at her forearm. She had once told him that physical touch was one of her love languages. Words of affirmation was another one of her love languages. As was acts of service. As was quality time. John considered that dating Gilly just might make him multilingual.

“Are you sure?” Gilly asked, her voice thick. “It wouldn’t surprise me, the way you two look at each other sometimes. I just want you to be honest with me.”

“I…” John’s head was spinning. “I am being honest with you. I…” he blinked. “The way we _look_ at each other?”

Gilly wailed something into her hands that sounded awfully similar to _you look like little puppydogs,_ but John must have misheard her because he and Sherlock certainly did _not_ look at each other like puppydogs. John patted at Gilly’s arm. This would pass.

John met Gilly while doing some shopping at Tesco. He had been standing in the produce section, trying to think of a meal involving broccoli that he could possibly bribe Sherlock into eating, when she came up next to him and told him he ought to try broccolini instead. The two of them struck up a conversation, chatting in the middle of the aisle for nearly thirty minutes while disgruntled shoppers wove their way around them. It wasn’t that John _never_ had interested others approach him, but he was so used to being the one to make the first move most of the time that her advances took him by surprise. When she asked for his number, he found himself giving it to her without even realizing what he was doing.

When he arrived back at Baker Street after meeting her—nearly a full two hours after he left to do the shopping—Sherlock took one look at him and rolled his eyes.

“Christ,” Sherlock muttered. “It begins again.”

John and Gilly got on fairly well. She was attractive, certainly—with dark hair and moon-shaped eyes, she had a charm to her that seemed effortless. She was a few years younger than John and seemed to possess a youthful energy that John was really only able to scrounge up when working a case with Sherlock. It was refreshing, he told himself. Not exhausting. Her work as a travel agent earned her discounted trips and she was fairly well-traveled, often darting away on trips and returning with plenty of stories. She always had plenty of stories; she loved to talk more than even Sherlock did at times. And Mrs. Hudson was wrong about her laugh. It was endearing. It was.

Gilly blew her nose into her napkin. She rubbed at her eyes with the back of a hand, smudging her mascara ever so slightly. “I believe you,” she said. “I do. I believe you.”

“Good,” John said. He squeezed her arm.

“If you say that there’s nothing going on between the two of you,” she said, “I believe you.”  
“There really isn't,” John said. “I promise.”

“Even though he’s asked you to be his boyfriend,” Gilly said. Her nose was red and her eyes were still shimmering, but she seemed to be calming down a bit.

“Fake boyfriend,” John repeated. “Fake. It’s just for a case, I promise you. Sherlock, he doesn’t do relationships, not real ones. He’s never even dated anyone before, I don’t think. He isn’t interested in things like that.” After all, Sherlock made that abundantly clear, right from the start.

“I believe you,” Gilly said.

Sherlock hadn’t taken to Gilly. Truthfully, Sherlock never really took to any of John’s girlfriends, but he definitely hadn’t taken to Gilly. Mrs. Hudson certainly didn’t help things. The two of them seemingly refused to refer to Gilly by her name, usually addressing her as _that one_ or with a vague flip of their hands. Sherlock turned into a passive-aggressive monster whenever she was even so much as mentioned, alternating between hurling hurtful little barbs at John’s direction or giving him the silent treatment. On the few occasions John actually brought Gilly by the flat, he swore that Sherlock intentionally trashed the place, spreading god-knows-what experiment he was doing with who-knows-how-old of human remains across the entirety of the flat. On three separate occasions, Gilly’s number and several photographs of her mysteriously vanished from John’s phone, and—although he couldn’t prove it—he had a fair idea of who the culprit was.

For her part, Gilly didn’t seem to take to Sherlock either. Their interactions were brief and terse, and Gilly’s uncharacteristic level of silence when he was around was more than a little telling of her attitudes towards the man. However, John couldn’t say he blamed her; Sherlock was making it easy on no one.

“It’s just,” Gilly said, checking her makeup in the camera of her mobile, “the way he is with you. The way you are with him. You can see why I worry.”

“Um,” John said. “No. No, I can’t see why you worry. Um, what exactly do you mean by—”

“And you know my history,” Gilly said, dabbing at her smeared mascara with a finger. “You know I’ve been cheated on before. You know how my bastard of an ex lied to me over and over again, how he had all those girls behind my back.”

“I know,” John said quickly. He had heard this story before. More than once.

“It does a thing to a person,” Gilly said. “It completely ruins your faith in humanity. It makes it impossible to trust anybody. Everybody is so disloyal, just a bunch of liars and cheats.”

“I know,” John said. He had heard this bit of the story before as well.

“You know,” Gilly said, setting her mobile on the table and smiling at John, her face good as new. “I didn’t think I could love again until I met you.” She smiled at him. She had a nice smile, the infectious kind that cut dimples into her face.

John smiled back and rubbed at her arm some more. He wasn’t particularly sure what to say in response. “That’s lovely,” he tried.

“So fine,” Gilly said. “You have my permission to go be Sherlock’s boyfriend for a few days.”

“Good,” John said, choosing not to comment on the fact that he hadn’t exactly been asking for permission.

“Just as long as Sherlock knows he can’t keep you,” Gilly said, winking. She returned to her coffee, long since neglected after her momentary lapse into panic. “You’re mine. And I don’t like to share.”

_Interestingly,_ John thought, _neither does Sherlock._ He forced out a little chuckle.

“And you’ll have to tell me how you like the cottage,” Gilly said. “My agency also manages that listing occasionally. Some guests have said that it’s a bit drafty. We’ve also gotten some complaints about the property manager. Seems he can be a bit overly friendly at times. Kind of a creep, if you ask me.”

“Right,” John said. He cleared his throat. “So. Um. When you say that there’s a way that we—that Sherlock and I— _look_ at each other. What exactly—”

“Ugh,” Gilly said, waving a dismissive hand as she sipped at her coffee. “I don’t want to talk about Sherlock right now. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Okay,” John said, although he was still very much interested in an answer to his question.

“Anything else,” Gilly said. “Anything else you’d like to talk about. Besides Sherlock.”

“Okay,” John said. He nodded. He searched his brain.

“ _Anything_ else,” Gilly repeated.

For the life of him, John couldn’t think of a single thing besides Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock managed to find the two of them a car, and insisted that they be packed and out the door first thing the next morning. As Sherlock so infuriatingly predicted, John had a kip after his coffee date with Gilly and, as such, tossed and turned the night before. He felt hazy and disjointed as he puttered about the next morning, packing the last of his toiletries and trying to blink himself into consciousness.

Mrs. Hudson was overjoyed.

“You boys have fun,” she chirped as the two of them gathered their things. “Some time away in the countryside, just the two of you, seems like exactly what the doctor ordered.”

“Trying to catch a serial killer,” John reminded her. “Before the serial killer catches us. Not exactly relaxing.” Indeed, Sherlock insisted that John pack his gun in his luggage, and John put up little fight. It seemed like the appropriate packing decision when trying to lure a serial killer, but it didn’t exactly bode well for the level of relaxation on the holiday.

“But loads of fun,” Sherlock said, grinning as he slung his bag over his shoulder and started down the stairs.

“Still,” Mrs. Hudson said. “There’s just something about the English countryside that is just so romantic.” She leaned closer to John, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve slipped some johnnies into Sherlock’s bag.” She winked at him. “Just in case.”

John sighed. It was certainly too goddamn early for any of this. “Again,” he said. “We’re just shamming for a case. I’ve still got a girlfriend. Gilly, remember?”

Mrs. Hudson tapped a finger over her lips, a tight little smile planted on her face. “I’ve packed some lubricant as well,” she said.

“Jesus Christ,” John said, hoisting his bag over his shoulder and sprinting down the stairs. Sherlock was already in the driver’s seat of their car—a compact sedan that barely contained enough room for the two of them and their bags—when John exited the flat.

There was traffic leaving the city, of course, but Sherlock wove through the cars with a speed that suggested he believed they were somehow impervious to physical damage. John flinched and clutched at the armrest, trying to restrain himself from shouting, cursing, or otherwise doing anything that might distract Sherlock in his endeavor to swerve in front of other cars, leaving only centimeters of space between them. John had offered to drive several times before, but Sherlock informed John that he drove like a gran. That settled that.

“As soon as we get to Keswick,” Sherlock said, narrowly avoiding being run down by a van nearly twice the size of their rental, “you and I are a couple.”

“Okay,” John said, suddenly feeling nervous for two reasons.

“We can relax a bit if we’re at the cottage,” Sherlock said, “but we should still remain friendly, in case the Holiday Killer is stalking us in some manner. Peering through the windows, that sort of thing.”

“Is that likely?” John asked.

“Quite,” Sherlock said. “As such, we must be vigilant. We can’t let our act slip for even a second if there is another person around, especially if we’re in public. We are a couple, you and I. It must be obvious to all.”

“Right,” John said. “And, um. What exactly will that entail? Being a couple?”

Sherlock waved a hand that John very much wished Sherlock would not remove from the wheel. “Couple...stuff,” he said. “Smiling. Being nice to one another. Physical affection.”

“I’m square on the first two,” John said, wincing as Sherlock whipped around an already fast-moving car and John’s arm jammed into the armrest, “although I’m not so sure _you_ are. But. I have questions about the third thing.”

Sherlock sighed. “You certainly have no trouble being physically affectionate with your girlfriends,” he said.

“I have no trouble _doing_ it,” John said. “Just...what are you expecting?” He cast a glance at Sherlock, whose eyes were—thankfully—on the road.

Sherlock seemed a bit exasperated. “What sort of physical affection would you expect to _see_ in a relationship?” he asked. “Hand-holding. Hugging. The occasional cuddle.”

“Right,” John said, feeling like he might be able to handle the whole of this after all. “Right. Okay.”

“Kissing.”

“Um.” John no longer felt like he could handle the whole of this. “What?”

“ _Kissing_ ,” Sherlock repeated, as if John simply hadn’t heard him. “Couples kiss, do they not?”

“Yes,” John said. “Yes. Yes, they do. But, Sherlock, _we’re_ not… That is, we’re not actually...” _I don’t think I could kiss you and recover from it,_ John thought but absolutely did not say.

“Relax,” Sherlock said. “I won’t actually kiss you. Not really, anyway.”

“You’re going to...not really kiss me?” John’s brow furrowed.

Sherlock wove their car between three motorbikes in quick succession and John was too terrified to look behind them to check if everyone was still alive. “There are ways of faking kisses,” Sherlock said. “Utilizing a well-placed hand to hide mouths from view. Placing a thumb over a partner’s mouth and kissing the thumb instead. Pressing a closed-lipped mouth to another’s lips, cheek, neck, and pantomiming the act of a kiss without actually kissing.” Sherlock whipped their car around a semi-truck and John saw his life flash before his eyes. “Methods that imitate intimacy without actually being intimate.”

“Ah,” John said.

“Regardless,” Sherlock said. “I’ll take care not to do it very often. Even with those methods, the act of kissing—however fake—is quite intimate. I will only utilize that strategy if strictly necessary, as should you.”

“Okay,” John said. “Good.” He had no idea why he ought to be disappointed about all that. But then Sherlock ran a sedan off the road and John immediately forgot about the whole of it.

The traffic blessedly thinned out as they left the city, and the roads grew longer, the surrounding trees thicker. Soon there were fewer buildings that flanked the roads, giving way to stretches of fields dotted with trees, the grey of the city melting to green. John watched the scenery change, smiling as they passed grassy areas dotted with sheep and goats. They certainly weren’t in London anymore.

The further they got from the city, the more John could feel his excitement spike. It was the same feeling he always got when he and Sherlock were about to embark upon some cracked adventure. Be it pissing everyone off at one of Lestrade’s crime scenes, poring over bank records of a suspected criminal, or—yes—embarking on a thorough tour of London’s sewer system, John never felt more alive than when he was helping Sherlock with the work. Sherlock could feel it too, John knew. There was a sort of energy exchange between the two of them, a positive charge in the air that nearly made one’s hair crackle and stand on end. John had to actively fight back a smile at the mere thought of it. It was truly a lovely feeling.

“John,” Sherlock said. “I am concerned about your ability to convincingly act as if you are in a relationship.”

John started, looking away from the scenery with surprise. “You’re worried about _me_?” John asked. “ _My_ ability?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said. “In order to lure this serial killer, we must be absolutely convincing in our portrayal of a couple. Any whiff of falsehood could cause the killer to flee and we’ll lose our chance.”

“And you don’t think _I_ can act like I’m in a relationship,” John said.

“Not with me,” Sherlock said.

“And exactly which one of us,” John said, “has had practice at being in a relationship?” John shook his head, turning back to the window. It was hard for him not to be a bit offended at all this. “I think I’m a little ahead of you in that department, Sherlock.”

“I’ve had relationships, John,” Sherlock said.

John’s head snapped back to Sherlock. “What?” he asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You can stop looking so shocked whenever you'd like,” he said.

“You,” John repeated. “You’ve had relationships.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“Romantic relationships,” John said.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “I thought that was implied.”

John cleared his throat. “Sexual relationships?”

Sherlock sighed. “Yes, John.”

John knew his mouth was wide open. His head spun. “Wow,” he said. It was as if he was just told that the earth—after years of believing it was round—was actually flat.

“Do try not to faint from the shock,” Sherlock said, his hands still placid on the steering wheel, eyes on the road. “We’re making good time and I’d hate to have to pull over to revive you.”

“Sorry,” John said, trying to shake the shock from his head. “It’s just...unexpected. I didn’t think you went for that sort of thing. I mean…”

“It’s been a while since I’ve had a relationship with a man,” Sherlock said, “but I am fairly certain I remember the basic mechanics.”

John blinked. He felt like he had been plunged underwater. “A man?” he asked.

“That is, in fact, what I said,” Sherlock said. “Excellent comprehension skills, John.”

“So you date…” John’s face was almost certainly red now. “You’ve dated...men?”

“Exclusively,” Sherlock said. He glanced over to John, eyes narrowed. “Is this novel information to you?” he asked.

John ran a hand through his hair. “Yes,” he said. He reconsidered. “No. That is…” He shook his head again. His thoughts weren’t arranging themselves in any sort of useful order. “I knew you didn’t go for girlfriends. I just thought...I thought it was because you didn’t go for anybody. I thought you just…” he waved his hands unhelpfully, “weren’t interested.”

Sherlock looked as if he were contemplating the merits of taking John to A&E at the moment. “In that case,” he said. “I am glad for the opportunity to correct you.”

“Right,” John said. “Right. Yeah.”

“As such,” Sherlock said, pushing the conversation forward despite John’s stuttering, “this leaves you as the only member of this dyad with no experience being in a relationship with a—”

John cleared his throat, glancing out the window. “I’ve. Um. Yeah.” He found that anything resembling eye contact was not possible for him at the moment. “I’ve been with men. As well.”

Sherlock, for once, seemed speechless. “Oh,” he said.

“It’s also been a while,” John said. “Not since uni, really. A bit after. But. Yeah.” Definitely red. John’s face was definitely red now.

Sherlock shook his head slowly. “I always miss something,” he said.

“So,” John said. “It would appear that we both have experience being in this sort of relationship.”

“It would appear so,” Sherlock said.

The car fell into silence, for which John was unspeakably grateful. He needed a moment—several moments, preferably—to wrap his mind around this new information. The whole of the time he knew Sherlock, since literally the first day they met, John was under the impression that Sherlock rebuked all romantic relationships. Hell, he had _told_ John as such just hours after the two met. Combining the fact that John had never once witnessed Sherlock exhibit anything close to sexual attraction for any living human with Mycroft’s little quips about Sherlock’s alleged virginity, John assumed that Sherlock was either asexual or, at the very least, considered romance and sex to be so far beneath his intellect that he wouldn’t debase himself so by giving these activities the time of day. Apparently, John was wrong. Apparently, not only was Sherlock interested and experienced in relationships, but also with sex. Specifically, sex with men. _He just wasn’t interested in any of that with you_ , a very unhelpful voice in his head pointed out. John did his best to ignore that voice.

A Pandora’s box of sorts opened in John’s mind, and he found himself halfway down a lengthy trail of imaginings before he could stop any of it. What, specifically, did Sherlock mean when he said he had sexual relationships? Sex is a broad concept, encompassing a variety of activities. Which activities had Sherlock partaken in? Sherlock had touched another man’s penis, surely—wrapped his long fingers around his partner’s shaft, stroking and pulling the man towards orgasm. Likely, he had another man’s hand on his cock as well. What did Sherlock sound like when he came, John wondered? Was he silent—all squeezed eyes and panted breaths? Or was he loud, an explosion of sound and movement? Had Sherlock sucked another man’s cock? Had he dropped to his knees, crouched in the vee of his partner’s legs, wrapped those beautiful lips around a straining erection? Did he swallow when the man came, or did he pull off at the last moment, stroking his partner to completion with a slick hand? Did he like it if his partner got a little rough during the act—pulling at his hair, guiding his bobbing head, thrusting up into his mouth? Or did he prefer to be in control—straddling thighs, pinning hips down with firm hands? And did Sherlock have penetrative sex? Did he allow another cock to slide inside him—from above him, legs hitched over his partner’s shoulders, from behind, on all fours on the bed? Or did Sherlock prefer to be the penetrating partner? Did he like to be the one pushing a man onto the mattress, sliding inside, making him scream?

Sherlock cleared his throat. “While I am hesitant to give you a full blow-by-blow of my complete sexual history,” he said, “I am more than willing to do so if it will derail the train of thought upon which you are currently embarking.”

“No,” John said, arguably a little too quickly. “No. No need for a, uh…” he found himself incapable of saying the word _blow_ at the moment, “summary.”

John could feel Sherlock looking at him out of the corner of his eye, a smug grin on his face. John refused to meet his eye, staring instead at the green of the trees as they passed by, not really seeing any of it. His face felt as if it were on fire.

“Do you want to know how I knew?” Sherlock asked. “What you were thinking?”

“No,” John said. “No. God. No.”

Sherlock chuckled. The car lapsed into a momentary silence. A very specific part of John’s body had recently become interested in the proceedings and John mentally willed it to leave him alone.

“You’re flushed,” Sherlock said.

John sighed. He tapped a knuckle against his temple. “That’s how you knew?”

“That’s one of seven ways I knew,” Sherlock said.

“I do not,” John said, “under any circumstances, want to know about the other six.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

The remainder of the drive was silent, save for the pounding of John’s blood in his ears.


	3. Chapter 3

The cottage was certainly isolated, down the end of a long, bumpy road that could barely fit a single car, trees covering them at all sides. There hadn’t been another house in sight for a few kilometers.

“This is perfect,” Sherlock said, looking around at the nothing that surrounded them. “We could be murdered in the middle of the day out here and we wouldn’t be found for weeks.”

“A rather unique definition of _perfect_ , that,” John said.

The cottage looked remarkably similar to its photographs on the travel website, if not more picturesque. The exterior was entirely grey-and-white stones, cobbled together god-knows-how-many years ago. Prim little shrubs lined the edges of the outer walls, and John could spy a tendril or two of ivy creeping up along the house. The roof was steep, the top of the house pitching up at a sharp angle. Somewhere along the line, the homeowner painted the door and shutters red, and the color screamed out against the sea of green that surrounded it.

“It belongs in a bloody calendar,” John said.

“Ghastly,” Sherlock said. “I certainly hope we’ll nearly be murdered here. That would almost make a stay in the country bearable.”

As their car pulled closer to the cottage, John spied another car in the driveway. A man stood just by the front door, swaying slightly on his toes with his hands in his pockets. He was middle-aged, with an upturned nose and dimming hair. He grinned and nodded at them as they approached.

“Property manager,” Sherlock said.

Sherlock parked the car in the dirt next to the property manager’s car. The man waved at them, taking a step towards their car.

“Are you ready?” Sherlock asked as he shut off the car.

“For what?” John asked, stepping out of the car and moving towards the boot to retrieve their luggage. He didn’t make it more than two steps before Sherlock was upon him, flinging his arms around John and spinning him in a half-circle until he was dizzily facing the cottage, Sherlock standing just behind him.

“ _Darling_ ,” Sherlock cried in a tone of voice John had never heard from him before. “ _Look_ at it!”

John cursed and was nearly knocked flat on his face as Sherlock threw his arms over John’s shoulders, the full force of Sherlock’s body smacking him in the back.

“Isn’t it _lovely_?” Sherlock asked, clutching at John so tightly it was ever so slightly difficult to breathe. “It looks _just_ like it did on the website.”

“I—” John started, but every thought he had in his brain evaporated instantaneously because Sherlock’s mouth was pressed to his neck. As promised, Sherlock wasn’t kissing him, not exactly, but John could feel the softness of Sherlock’s lips against his skin and the warmth of his breath tickling his jaw and the lone thought in his head was that this was physically the closest he and Sherlock had ever been and it wasn’t exactly unpleasant. It was actually quite far from unpleasant.

The property manager walked over to them and extended a hand. “Hugh Stoneton,” he said, grinning. “Pleasure to meet the both of you.”

Sherlock unwrapped only one of his arms from John to shake Hugh’s hand. “Sherlock,” he said. “This is my boyfriend, John.”

Hearing Sherlock say it out loud to another person, not just in the privacy of their flat—that sure was different, now wasn’t it? John felt like he might have started sweating at some point. “Boyfriend,” he repeated, and he was midway through his handshake with Hugh before he realized he hadn’t actually said his own name. “John,” he corrected.

Hugh gestured back towards the house. “I’ve got the keys for you,” he said. “I can give you a quick tour of the place before I head out.”

“A tour would be lovely,” Sherlock said. “Doesn’t it sound lovely, darling?” He tightened both arms around John again, squeezing him within an inch of his life.

“Lovely,” John said. It would seem he only had the ability to speak one word at a time now. He reached up with a tentative hand and patted at Sherlock’s arm. He had completely forgotten how physical touch worked, and he had a feeling he wasn’t quite doing it right.

Hugh started towards the front door and Sherlock released John, grabbing instead for his hand and interlacing their fingers. He leaned in close to John’s ear, his lips nearly grazing John’s skin.

“Quite alright?” he whispered. His voice was low, almost a growl, and John could feel Sherlock’s breath on his ear.

“Fine,” John said, in a voice that didn’t exactly support his assertions. He squeezed at Sherlock’s hand, as if that proved anything.

The inside of the cottage bore close resemblance to the photographs on the website as well, save for a few furniture updates. Hugh walked them through the ground floor, starting in the kitchen. The kitchen was bright and bathed in sunlight, ancient-looking table and chairs in the center of the room. Hugh pointed out the various antique appliances, each of which looked days away from breaking.

“Self-catering, as you know,” Hugh said. “But there are places to get food in town. About a 20-minute drive from here. Not too bad.”

John considered inquiring about options for ordering take-out, but a glance out the window at the forest that surrounded them made him decide to save his breath.

“You’ll have to cook for me,” Sherlock crooned, rubbing the whole of his body along John’s side.

“Ha,” John said, the only sound he could muster at the moment.

The wooden floors creaked beneath their feet as Hugh walked them into the sitting room. A grand picture window lay on the far wall, but otherwise the room was lived-in and cozy, with a motley assortment of overstuffed sofas centered around a grand stone fireplace. Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s back, pulling him in.

“I can’t _wait_ to get you in front of that fireplace,” Sherlock said, _much_ louder than John would have done himself. He gazed down at John with a sultry expression, a look that John had never once seen on Sherlock’s face. Something about it was making a bit of heat start to flare up in his stomach.

“Ha,” John said again.

“I think you’re embarrassing your boyfriend,” Hugh laughed. “His face is red as a beet.”

Sherlock wrapped his other arm around John, moving him until the two were nearly chest-to-chest. “He’s shy,” Sherlock said, his glittering eyes on John.

“Am not,” John said before he could stop himself. He wasn’t shy, not exactly. He was mostly caught off guard. He knew Sherlock was shamming—hell, he had _seen_ Sherlock sham all sorts of little characters at this point in their friendship. This version of Sherlock—the doting, overly-affectionate boyfriend—was functionally the same as all the other personas Sherlock adopted to obtain whatever he needed for a case. The sobbing friend of a missing person. The terrified victim of a mugging. The sleazy drug dealer. Once, a shady circus clown. The difference was that this one seemed to be directed at John— _wrapped around_ John, literally—and John was starting to understand how the victims of Sherlock’s little characters fell for his act time and again.

“Prove it,” Sherlock said, and he was _flirting,_ actually _flirting_ with John. John could see it starting to turn into a game for Sherlock, a way for Sherlock not only to goad a serial killer into murdering them but also to see just how uncomfortable he could make John in one five-minute period.

Well. John was not about to be outdone.

He whipped out a hand just as Sherlock was about to pull away, catching him by the nape of his neck and dragging their foreheads together. “Get that fire going,” John growled, “and I’ll prove it as much as you like.”

Sherlock grinned—the fake one—but John saw something flash in Sherlock’s eyes, something genuine. His fake smile twitched into something real at the corners and Sherlock’s eyebrows raised. _Well played,_ his expression said.

Hugh cleared his throat. Sherlock stepped away from John, but he kept his eyes on John for a moment longer, not-quite-fake smile lingering on his face. John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it tight. He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. _So there._

Hugh took the both of them upstairs, although there wasn’t much to see up there. John, of course, knew that it was a one-bedroom cottage and, by definition, would only have one bed. Still, he was a bit shocked to see the thing, sitting underneath a grand window, flanked by the sloping ceiling on each side. John held tight to Sherlock’s hand, refusing to be visibly thrown, but he felt a strange dancing feeling in his stomach.

“Um,” John said, “you said that’s a queen-sized bed?”

“Sure is,” Hugh said.

It sure wasn’t.

“We’ll just have to cuddle,” Sherlock said, nudging John with a shoulder.

John made something like a laugh, but he looked at the bed with trepidation. It really _was_ much narrower than expected. John had a feeling that there might actually be some cuddling in their future, planned or not. A part of John’s body perked up at the thought, which did not exactly make anything easier for John at the moment.

Hugh led them into the loo, the last room on the tour. The walls were tile and the piping looked as old as the cottage itself, but there was a claw-foot tub—the one Sherlock mentioned on his call with the rental company—sitting grandly at the end of the room. Sherlock was right. It did appear to be big enough for two.

When John risked a glance at Sherlock, Sherlock’s expression was smug. _Told you._

John chuckled. Shook his head. _Yes. Yes you did._

Hugh was smiling at them, a quirky, lopsided grin. “You lads made a handsome couple,” he said.

“Don’t we?” Sherlock said. He released John’s hand in favor of wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him snugly to his side. He smiled at John, a delighted, possessive grin that started something flickering in John’s chest even though he knew it was fake. He reminded himself about the neurotransmitters Sherlock talked about—oxytocin and the like—but he had a feeling they weren’t exactly the culprit here.

“It’s all him,” John said before he could stop himself. “He’s handsome enough for the both of us.” Sherlock blinked and, if John wasn’t mistaken, a hint of red rose to the tips of his cheeks. It was true, though. With his lithe figure, piercing eyes, and sharp, elegant features, one would have to be blind or brain damaged not to find Sherlock Holmes attractive. More than once, John found himself crankily marveling at how Sherlock could manage to be so bloody _good-looking_ all the bloody time. Even first thing in the morning, or when he had been unshowered and moping for days on end in between cases, he was unquestionably the nicest thing to look at in a room at any given time. It wasn’t fair.

“How long have you two been together?” Hugh asked.

“Three years and four months,” Sherlock said, before John had time to panic over having put little to no thought into what their backstory would be.

“That’s…” John’s brain tried to work its way through the math. “Yeah. That’s right, actually.” That was literally how long the two of them had known each other, spanning back to the first day they met in the lab at Barts. John glanced at Sherlock, smiling.

“You don’t think I’d know how long we’ve been together?” Sherlock asked. He was teasing, but there was a hint of _him_ in his tone, a flicker of the smile that John didn’t see often but knew signified Sherlock truly being pleased about something.

“Of course you would,” John said, and before he could talk himself out of it, he grasped Sherlock’s jaw in his hand and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Sherlock smiled. He looked charmed. One would have to know him very well to know that his blinking—both in frequency and quantity—meant that he was a bit taken aback by the gesture. John couldn’t help but feel a bit accomplished—surprising Sherlock Holmes was no small feat. The feeling was undercut ever so slightly by the lingering scent of Sherlock’s aftershave on his lips, which was making John’s chest do a funny thing.

They walked back downstairs with Hugh. He left their keys on the counter, showed them where the wood for the fireplace was stored, and talked them through the instructions for working the vintage cooker. They saw him out, standing by the front door as he walked to his car.

“I’m just a short drive away if the two of you need anything,” Hugh said. “I hope you lads have a lovely time here.”

“I’m _certain_ we will,” Sherlock said, leaning against John’s back with his arms around John’s chest again, having long since recovered from the spontaneous kiss. John tucked his arms around Sherlock’s, gaining his footing a bit more with this whole _couple_ business, and Sherlock rested his cheek against John’s temple. The two of them watched Hugh drive off, a cloud of dust kicked up behind his car as he made his way down the long driveway.

Once Hugh’s car disappeared down the road, the dust settling back on the driveway, Sherlock dropped his arms from John. His face flattened back into his placid _Sherlock_ expression, the one John had grown so familiar with over the years. John couldn’t help but feel a pang of emptiness at Sherlock’s abrupt physical departure. This version of Sherlock, the one who beamed with his whole face and flirted mischievously and seemed as if he couldn’t keep his hands off John for even a second, John knew it was a fake. He knew it wasn’t really Sherlock. He knew—or at least, he _thought_ he knew—that Sherlock didn’t go in for things like that, for relationships. Still, there was something captivating about that fake version of Sherlock, something that set off a feeling in John’s chest that felt remarkably like yearning.

“Best get our things,” Sherlock said, walking with purpose to their car.

Right then, John thought, following. Business as usual. No more mooning at the scenery and grinning at each other. And certainly no more touching, at least for the moment. John did his best to ignore the little throb of disappointment he felt at the notion.

The two retrieved their bags from the boot of the car and carried them into the cottage. After a brief argument over whether or not to lock the front door ( _We want to give the killer_ some _sort of challenge, don’t we?_ John asked), they climbed the stairs to deposit their luggage in the bedroom.

Sherlock was busy hanging his shirts in the armoire while John eyed the bed once more. It was long enough that Sherlock’s feet were unlikely to dangle off the edge, but it was certainly, _certainly_ not wide enough to be queen-sized. John also noticed a dip in the center, a little valley that would send the two rolling towards each other in the middle of the night, involuntary but certain.

“I can hear you thinking,” Sherlock said. “I’m afraid there’s no other way. The sofa in the sitting room is in plain view of the window. If the killer comes by and sees one of us sleeping on the sofa, our game will be up.”

“I wasn’t thinking that,” John said, and surprised even himself to realize that he truly wasn’t. Not once did it occur to him that he could be a gentleman and offer to sleep elsewhere. He might not be telling Gilly about that bit when they spoke next. “I was just hoping you don’t hog the covers.”

“I don’t.”

“Or snore.”

“I _certainly_ don’t.”

“Or put your freezing feet on me.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You have a lot of stipulations for your bed-partner,” he said.

John shrugged, a small smile flitting across his face. “Just trying to be sure I get a good night’s sleep. I want to be on high alert for this bloke who’s coming to kill us.”

“Well,” Sherlock said, “I’ll have you know I am a perfectly considerate bed-partner.”

“Oh really?” John asked.

“Indeed,” Sherlock said, and before John had a chance to brace himself, Sherlock gave him a rough, two-handed shove onto the mattress. John landed twisted around on his side, a sharp _oof_ noise escaping him. Sherlock flung himself on the bed next to him, the bed squeaking and shuddering as his back bounced against the mattress.

“Careful,” John laughed. “If you break this bed they’re going to think we broke it the other way.” He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. “Especially after that show you put on for Hugh.”

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows. “We had to be convincing, John,” he said. “Anyone could be a suspect. We must leave no doubts as to the status of our relationship.”

“Yeah. Well,” John flattened himself onto his back, eyes on the ceiling. “I don’t think Hugh had any doubts as to the status of our relationship.”

“You did quite well,” Sherlock said.

“Really?” John asked, a little grin spreading over his face. “Even after all that _I’m-worried-you-won’t-be-convincing_ talk?”

“I was pleasantly surprised,” Sherlock said. He cleared his throat. “And that, uh. Kiss. Towards the end. That was well-played.”

John tilted his head towards Sherlock. “Yeah?”

Sherlock was staring down at the mattress. “Yeah,” he said. “It was clearly improvised, and the spontaneous nature of the act bolstered its realism.”

“Anything I can do to bolster the realism,” John said. He chuckled, shaking his head. “Sherlock Holmes, a good boyfriend. Who would have thought?”

Sherlock slipped down from his elbows, lying flat on his back at John’s side. “Was I?”

“Yeah,” John said. “You weren’t bad. Kind. Affectionate.” He nudged Sherlock with an elbow. “Flirty.”

“A simple study of human behavior in romantic relationships,” Sherlock said. “Textbook.”

“‘Course,” John said. “I would never let you call me _darling_ if we were really dating.”

Sherlock tilted his head towards John, eyes narrowed. “No?”

“No,” John said. “I hate pet names.”

“You had a girlfriend a while ago who called you _sweetums,_ ” Sherlock said. He looked as if the words tasted vile.

“Yeah,” John said. “And I hated it.”

“What else don’t you like in relationships?” Sherlock asked. “I suppose I ought to know. I’d hate to call you _sweetums_ and have your sour look blow our cover.”

“Um.” John thought. “You don’t need to hold the door for me or anything like that.”

“For Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?” Sherlock said. “You ought to be holding doors open for _me._ ”

“Git.” John chuckled. “I’m fine with physical affection. Hugs and things like that. I get a bit squidgy about it in public, though.”

Sherlock hummed. “No way around that, I’m afraid,” he said. “Public is where we’ll need to be the most convincing of our status as a couple.”

“Right,” John said, his chest getting a little hot at the thought of Sherlock’s hands, arms, body against him in public, staking his claim of John as his supposed boyfriend. “Well, I don’t mind some of it. Most of it, really. Hugs. Cuddles.” He reached between them, grabbing Sherlock’s hand with nervous fingers. “Hand-holding.”

Sherlock interlaced their fingers, gripping at John’s hand. Sherlock’s fingers were long, much longer than John’s, stretching nearly the length of John’s palm. John’s hand seemed _enveloped,_ which he never realized until this moment would be an oddly comforting feeling.

“What about kissing?” Sherlock asked.

All the moisture in John’s mouth abruptly left him. His heart gave a lurch, stuttering into overdrive on the off-chance that it would be made to stop in the immediate future. He went to make a joke, something silly about people talking, but when he turned his head, Sherlock’s eyes were boring into his, clear and bright and sharp enough to stop traffic.

“Ah,” John said. It would seem he was back to monosyllabic non-words.

“Not snogging, of course,” Sherlock said. “The sort of thing we talked about in the car. Pantomiming kisses as much as is possible. In public.”

“In public,” John repeated. His brain seemed to be skipping a bit on the thought of Sherlock kissing him—however fake—in public.

“I know I am somewhat out of practice in these matters,” Sherlock said, “ but I do believe that it is expected for individuals in romantic relationships to kiss each other. On occasion.”

“Yeah,” John said, his voice sounding choppy. “Yeah. I suppose so.”

John was very aware of Sherlock’s hand in his, long fingers wrapped around his palm, squeezing with just enough pressure, _enveloping_ him. John’s hand was warm, starting to sweat a bit, but that was from the nervousness John had absolutely no idea why he was feeling. His heart was hammering, and he was sure that Sherlock could feel his pulse thrumming between his fingers, making all sorts of deductions as to what John might be feeling at the moment. And—god—their faces were close. When did their faces get so close? John could practically feel Sherlock’s breath on his upper lip.

John’s mobile started ringing in his pocket and he nearly screamed. He released Sherlock’s hand and scrambled for his mobile. Gilly. She was video-calling him.

“Shit,” he hissed, popping to his feet. He had a feeling he shouldn’t be in bed with Sherlock Holmes for a chat with his girlfriend. Sherlock rolled over, a sour look on his face.

“Hello poppet,” Gilly chirped as soon as John answered the phone. “You’ve arrived at the cottage, then?” She appeared to be at her flat, seated on her brightly-colored sofa. Everything in Gilly’s flat was brightly-colored. It looked pretty, but it gave John a headache at times.

“ _He doesn’t like pet names,_ ” Sherlock called, and John decided it was best that his phone call be held far, far away from Sherlock.

“Ah, yes,” John said, trying to make it look as if he wasn’t actively running down the stairs. “Got in just a moment ago. Met the property manager. He seems like a nice bloke.” _And we really put on quite a show for him,_ John didn’t add.

“Hugh, right?” Gilly asked. “He’s the one I told you about. He’s nice, but he can be a bit of a creep.”

“Ah,” John said. _Well, he seemed perfectly nice while we were practically snogging in front of him_.

“What’s the cottage like?” Gilly asked. “Anything like the pictures?” Her eyes darted to just behind him on the screen, trying to take in the scenery of the house as he walked through it.

“Yeah,” John said. “It’s nice. Definitely cozy. Very picturesque. I could see why folks would want to book a holiday here. Very English-countryside.”

“It’s one of my company’s more popular listings,” Gilly said. “I can’t believe Sherlock was able to book it on such short notice. Speaking of…” she smirked. “How’s the boyfriend?”

John wedged himself into the kitchen, which he hoped was the furthest point in the house from Sherlock at the moment. “Um,” he said. “He’s...good. He’s settling in. Upstairs.” _In the bed. The only bed. Our bed._

As if on cue, Sherlock clambered down the stairs, looking to be in a bit of a strop. He flopped down on one of the sofas and made a big show of checking something on his mobile.

“Hello, Sherlock,” Gilly called.

“ _He doesn’t prefer grand displays of physical affection in public,_ ” Sherlock replied, not taking his eyes off his mobile.

John decided to have the remainder of the conversation outside.

“I still don’t think he likes me very much,” Gilly said.

“He likes you,” John lied.

“He doesn’t like me near as much as he likes you,” Gilly said.

John wasn’t particularly sure what to say to that. “Well,” he tried. “You know how he is. If he’s only being a bit of an arsehole, you should consider yourself lucky.”

Gilly propped her chin up with an elbow. She leaned towards her camera. “What’s he like as a boyfriend?” she asked.

_Like having a magnifying glass beaming the sunlight down on you,_ John thought. _Shining and warm and brilliant but you know eventually it’ll get you, it’ll turn you to ash where you stand. You’ll never survive it._

“A bit weird,” John said. “He’s a good actor, you know. Does those little characters for cases. It’s just so...different, trying to play one with him.”

“Well,” Gilly said, grinning. “So long as I’ll get to keep you once this is all over.”

“Of course you will,” John said.

* * *

Later that night, John cleaned his teeth in the loo before bed, delaying the inevitable while doing his best to ignore the thumping of his heart in his ears.

“ _Social media is a breeding ground for disingenuous narcissists,_ ” Sherlock called from the bedroom. From their bedroom. From the bed.

While John popped into town to buy the two of them just enough food to keep them from starving at the cottage, Sherlock had spent most of the afternoon and evening in a deep investigation of the various social media accounts of each of the victims, trying to glean information regarding commonalities and general patterns of behavior, especially immediately before their murder. John returned to find Sherlock complaining about the quantity of posts left by their mourning friends and family that cluttered up the accounts, forcing John to remind Sherlock multiple times about the notion of _sentiment._

_What is the logic behind expressing sorrow on the social media page of a dead person?_ Sherlock had asked, scrolling angrily through several posts filled with memorial photos of one of the most recent victims. _It’s not like the deceased are around to read it. It’s a preposterous waste of space and time._

John gave up shortly after that.

Now Sherlock was seated on the bed, perched against some pillows he propped up on the headboard, scrolling through his phone. He had already cleaned his teeth and changed into his pyjamas and was decidedly ready for bed. It was late, a bit later than John usually tried to be in bed on nights that didn’t involve him chasing some criminal with Sherlock, but John found that he was annoyingly wide awake.

“You’ve been cleaning your teeth for five minutes,” Sherlock called. “If you’re planning on sleeping in the loo, can you at least have the decency to turn the light off in here?”

Right then. He rinsed and dried off his hands and nodded to himself in the mirror for moral support. Off to go sleep with Sherlock Holmes. Christ. Mrs. Hudson would be beside herself with joy.

Sherlock looked up as John entered the bedroom. His knees were drawn up to his chest and his back was sunk against what looked to be nearly every pillow on the bed and the strangest thing about the situation was how strange it _didn’t_ seem. It seemed perfectly normal, Sherlock flipping absently through his mobile as he waited for John to join him in bed, and for a moment it felt as if they had been doing it for years.

Sherlock nodded at the nightstand, where John’s own mobile rested. “You got a text.”

“Ah,” John said.

“Your _poppet_ , most likely,” Sherlock said, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Indeed, it was.

_Sleep well, poppet,_ the text read.

John set the phone back on the nightstand, face down. The mattress creaked as he got into bed, and he could feel the dip in the mattress he noticed earlier, pulling him ever so slightly closer to Sherlock. John fluffed the lone pillow Sherlock left him, doing his best to get comfortable while the whole of his body was humming.

“Find anything interesting?” John asked, nodding at Sherlock’s mobile.

“Everybody lies,” Sherlock said.

“The victims, you mean?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock said. “Everybody on social media. These websites are filled with liars.”

John glanced at Sherlock’s screen. He was looking at a photograph of one of the victims at what appeared to be an office party. She stood with two of her coworkers. They had their arms around each other, smiling. One of them was laughing.

“Yeah,” John said. “They sure look like bloody liars to me.”

Sherlock pointed to two of the women. “These two hate each other,” he said. “You can tell by their body language. And this one,” he pointed at the laughing woman, “is faking that laugh. Someone counted down so she could laugh just as they took the picture.” He pointed to a handbag over a woman’s shoulder. “This is a rental,” he said. “She can’t afford designer handbags on her salary, so she rents to look like she can. And _this_ woman,” he pointed again, “saved the tags to that jacket so she can return it the next day. And not a one of them wants to be at this party. They attended out of obligation and they all intend on leaving early.”

“Right,” John said, his brain spinning a bit at the deductions. “But some of that is just normal behavior. Attending an office party to be nice. Pretending to like your coworkers. That’s the kind of things people do.”

Sherlock scrolled through the victim’s page, passing picture after picture. “It’s _all_ fake,” he said. He stopped at a picture, a close-up of the woman’s face as she smirked at the camera. “The reason her face is angled in this manner is because she has a large blemish on her right cheek. The photograph only captures her face because she has gained five pounds and doesn’t want anybody to see.” He scrolled to another picture, one of her smiling over a pint. “She hates that beer,” he said. “She won’t finish it.” He scrolled again, stopping on a photograph of the couple smiling in a forest. The caption read, _had a lovely time hiking!_ “They fought the whole time,” Sherlock said.

“I suppose that’s the point of social media,” John said. “Pretending to make your life look perfect when it isn’t.”

“Her fiancé was just as bad,” Sherlock said, clicking on his page. “In this picture he claims he bench-pressed two hundred pounds when in fact it was no more than one eighty-five. Here he is posing with a car he doesn’t own. _And,_ ” he pointed to a picture of the man in a large group of people, seemingly after a football game, “do you see this woman right here?” He pointed to a woman on the other side of the crowd.

John nodded.

“He’s having an affair with her,” Sherlock said. He considered. “Well, he _was_. Probably not anymore, now that he’s dead.”

John leaned closer, squinting at the picture. “How the hell can you tell _that_?” he asked.

“ _Thousands_ of ways,” Sherlock said. “Matching flushes. Rumpled clothing. Awkward smiles, as if hiding a secret. Standing a little too far from each other, but seeming to wish they were closer. Also, the woman sounded quite emotional in her message of mourning on his page, much more than would be expected of an acquaintance or coworker.” He clicked the screen shut on his mobile. “Liars, John. The lot of them.”

“Yeah,” John said. “I suppose so.” He realized that he had moved quite close to Sherlock and was now nearly pressed along Sherlock’s side. Now that Sherlock’s mobile was off, John had very little reason to be there. He shifted back to his side of the bed, clearing his throat. “Not that we have much room to talk.” He gestured between the two of them. “We aren’t exactly being honest at the moment, either.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “I suppose not.” However, there was something in his expression that made John wonder if they weren’t talking about different things.

“Right,” John said, unsure of what else to say. “Well. Time for bed then.”

Sherlock nodded. “We’ll have a busy day tomorrow,” he said. “Based on my research, the other victims spent quite a bit of time exploring the town surrounding their rental house. We’ll have to parade around a bit, allow the killer to observe us in public.” He winked at John. “Brace yourself for some public displays of physical affection, _poppet._ ”

“Go ahead and get _that_ out of your system now,” John said. “Because if you call me _poppet_ in public tomorrow, I’m going to deck you.”

Sherlock settled down on the pillows, burrowing underneath the blankets and shutting his eyes. “I wouldn’t _dream_ of upsetting my boyfriend so,” he murmured. “Not when he promised to prove himself to me in front of the fire.”

John’s cock absolutely should _not_ have stirred at that idea. “Goodnight, Sherlock,” he said.

* * *

Sherlock seemed to drift off to sleep nearly immediately, but John found himself to be wide awake. The whole of his body was rigid, afraid to move or shift or even breathe too heavily, lest he encroach upon Sherlock’s side of the bed. He could hear Sherlock’s gentle breathing at his side but didn’t dare to glance over at him. He wasn’t sure what gazing upon Sherlock’s sleeping form would do to him at the moment.

John found himself to be more than a little thrown off-kilter by the events of the day. He knew it was all pretend, all in the name of luring a serial killer. He reminded himself once more of Sherlock’s assertions about neurochemicals reacting to physical touch and making one believe they are feeling something they really aren’t. He reminded himself of Gilly. None of it, however, seemed to do much for what he was very afraid was starting to stir within himself.

It wasn’t the doting, overly-sweet nature that was starting to turn something in John’s mind; no, that was the bit that was the easiest to dismiss. It was so far from _Sherlock_ that it was practically a stranger, foreign and unnerving. John wondered if it was Sherlock’s attentiveness to him that was turning things, but this level of attention wasn’t unusual for Sherlock. Sure, Sherlock could be a bit unmindful of John’s presence or absence at times, but when Sherlock was focused on John it was like a laser-focus, singeing him at the edges. The only difference today was the look in Sherlock’s eyes when he focused—it was a look that would kill you slowly, boil you in water over hours and you’d die with a smile on your face. Still, the biggest piece of today that was knocking John off-balance was the touching.

John didn’t mind when partners were physically affectionate with him; indeed, he rather liked it. Still, he usually had his limits. He could hold their hand for a bit, but after five or so minutes his hand would get hot and he needed to let go. He was comfortable with hugs, but if they occurred too frequently he would grow grouchy. He didn’t mind the occasional cuddle, but he often found himself needing his own space. With Sherlock, it felt different. With Sherlock, it felt as if it would never be enough. When Sherlock’s arms dropped away from his shoulders this afternoon, John immediately missed him. He loved the feel of Sherlock’s fingers entwined with his and would gladly go through life with the use of only one hand if it meant Sherlock was on the other. Even now, with Sherlock less than an arm’s reach away from him in bed, John wished he were closer. He wished he could pull Sherlock in, wrap his arms around Sherlock until the two were pressed together at all points, nearly a single unit. His arms nearly itched with the desire.

That, of course, would all be ill-advised. Sherlock wasn’t John’s to wrap his arms around, and all physical touch the two of them shared this week would be all for show, to lure in the Holiday Killer. It would all mean nothing in the end. So instead, he lay on his back in bed—still as a statue—with his arms propped under his head, where they would be completely safe.

Sherlock shifted in bed, rolling closer to John. John stole a glance at the man next to him. His face was peaceful, and for once he didn’t seem like he had thousands of thoughts whirring away in his head, keeping him five steps ahead of John at all times. His hair was a bit mussed from sleep, poking out in all directions and falling over his forehead. John was glad for his hands tucked behind his head—he was feeling an inexplicably strong urge to brush Sherlock’s hair away from his face at the moment.

Sherlock let out a little moan and rolled forward again. This time, he pressed himself against John, his face nearly nestled into John’s armpit. John’s body went stiff. Sherlock Holmes was pressed against him in his sleep. He could feel each of Sherlock’s breaths puff against his chest. He could feel the warmth of Sherlock’s body on his. If he focused hard enough, he could _smell_ Sherlock, traces of aftershave and soap still clinging to him from the day.

He ought to wake Sherlock, he knew. He ought to shift away, slide Sherlock back to his side of the bed. Give Sherlock his space. Sharing a bed was part of this little ruse they had going, but _this_ certainly wasn’t. The Holiday Killer wasn’t going to sneak into the cottage just to make sure they were cuddling. This, John knew, was unnecessary and ought to be stopped. Sherlock wasn’t actually interested in John, and—besides—John had a girlfriend.

As such, John was a bit surprised when his arm slipped from underneath his head and came to rest gently against Sherlock’s back. Sherlock sighed and moved closer, his hand sliding across John’s chest. John wrapped his arm further around Sherlock. He could fit his arm nearly the whole of the way around Sherlock’s slender frame. Sherlock was warm against him and John sighed, feeling his body start to relax for the first time since he got into bed.

_This doesn’t mean anything_ , John told himself as he drifted off to sleep. _This doesn’t have to mean anything_.

When John woke up the next morning, his arms were empty.


	4. Chapter 4

The clawfoot tub was definitely big enough for two—large and white and gleaming, taking up nearly half of the bathroom. _My boyfriend likes to take long baths,_ Sherlock had said over the phone to the rental company. _And I like to join him._ John was not going to think about any of that at the moment.

Sherlock was buried once more in the social media pages of the various victims when John came downstairs this morning, so John decided to take advantage of Sherlock’s distraction and draw himself a bath. He _did_ enjoy long baths—Sherlock was frustratingly right about that fact—and the giant bathtub was more than a little appealing to him.

The ancient taps creaked and the water took a moment to heat up, but when it did the water was near-scalding, just as John liked it. John filled the tub nearly to the brim, poured in some of the bath salts he found in a cupboard, and sunk into the water, stifling a moan as he did so.

He washed himself slowly, feeling the tension slip from his body with the steam from the water. The previous day had been more than a little confusing—pretending to be Sherlock’s boyfriend, the accidental cuddling during the night—and John felt as if he had been on edge ever since Sherlock told him of this little plan to entice the Holiday Killer.

Still, it was more than a little lovely to have Sherlock in his arms last night, even if it ultimately meant nothing. There was something right about it, as if Sherlock fit into his arms in a way that suggested he was meant to be there all along. John found that he missed Sherlock a bit—which was nonsensical, he was only downstairs—and wished that Sherlock had been in the bed when he woke up this morning. He wished that they’d woken up together, still wrapped up in each other.

John shook his head, rubbing wet hands over his face. This was not the train of thought he wanted to be heading down. He had a girlfriend, after all, and Sherlock—although not as uninterested in relationships as John once thought—was certainly not interested in a relationship with _him_. Still, John’s cock was quite interested in this train of thought and had grown plump between his legs, raising weightlessly in the warm water.

John had long since decided that he was not to touch himself to thoughts of Sherlock. That way most certainly lay madness and would make for awkward interactions around the flat, especially given Sherlock’s nearly inhuman powers of observation. It was a difficult feat after John first moved in, when Sherlock’s whirlwind nature and inexplicable attractiveness ran through John like a tidal wave on a near constant basis. As time wore on, John found it easier and easier to keep unseemly thoughts from his mind. The last time he’d broken his promise to himself was over a year ago, after Sherlock somehow managed to melt the pipes in the kitchen sink and water gushed all over him and he stripped down to his pants right there in the kitchen. John couldn’t really be blamed for that wank. He was only human, after all.

Unfortunately, John was finding it a bit difficult to keep his promise this morning. Spending the previous day pretending to be Sherlock’s boyfriend, having Sherlock drape himself all over him while Hugh was showing them the cabin, being the recipient of Sherlock’s little innuendos and flirts—it all equaled out to a bit more than John could take. Sherlock’s head resting on his shoulder in the middle of the night alone was enough to have John’s fingers running up the length of his cock.

It would be for the best, John told himself. It might take the edge off his sexual energy, make him a bit more relaxed when he next had Sherlock wrapping his arms around him and calling him _darling,_ whenever that would be. And it was just a wank—nothing more—and certainly not cheating. As long as he kept himself from acting on any of the ill-advised but certainly enticing thoughts in his mind, it was not cheating.

As such, John felt only somewhat guilty as he wrapped his fingers around his cock, running a fist up himself slowly. He moaned at the sensation, his head tipping back against the side of the tub, and all guilt immediately faded. He swirled a thumb over the head of his cock and thought about the length of Sherlock’s body pressed against his last night. It would have been easy for John to slip a hand down Sherlock’s back to grope at his lovely arse, to pull him closer. Would Sherlock have gotten hard at the warm proximity of their bodies? Would Sherlock have been opposed to John’s hand sliding over his cock just as it slid over John’s own at the moment? Would Sherlock have allowed his hands to go wandering as well, those long fingers slipping down John’s pyjamas and settling themselves between John’s legs?

John’s hand moved faster along his cock and he bit at his lip to keep from moaning. In his mind’s eye, Sherlock had rolled on top of him last night, their bodies flush against one another’s. Sherlock had moved his hips against John’s, grinding slowly but solidly, moving their cocks together. If John was as hard as he was right now, such an act would have made him come in a few short moments. Would it have made Sherlock come as well, writhing and panting on top of him, biting at his neck as he spilled into his own trousers? The water lapped and rippled with the movement of John’s hand. His feet slipped across the bottom of the tub. John’s little whispered gasps seemed to echo across the walls.

The door flew open and Sherlock burst inside. “John,” he called, ”we’re going into town immediately.”

John nearly drowned himself as he slipped in the tub in an effort to cover up, partially submerging himself and splashing water across the floor. “Jesus _Christ_ , Sherlock,” he said, coughing up water. “I’m in the bloody bath.”

Sherlock stared at the fresh puddle on the floor with confusion. “Yes,” he said. “I see that.” He stepped over the puddle and sat himself on the rim of the tub, his face full of excitement. “I’ve worked out a new theory about the Holiday Killer’s methods,” he said. “I have reason to believe that he not only attended to the movements of the couples while they were away from the house but also used that time to prepare the house itself in some manner.”

John was barely listening to Sherlock, focusing instead on attempting to cover his own genitals. The water was still churning a bit from John’s near-drowning, but it was certainly clear enough for Sherlock to see directly to the bottom. Or, more specifically, to John’s cock, which still sported a flagging yet distinct erection.

Sherlock did not seem to notice John’s discomfort. “Dismantling security systems, breaking locks, that sort of thing,” he said. “A few of the victims made comments about it before they died, complaining about windows not closing, locks seeming faulty. Never putting two and two together.”

John tugged a flannel from the side of the tub and ripped it into the water, bunching it around his crotch. “Sounds interesting,” he said. “Any chance we can continue this conversation after I’m out of the bath?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to be so modest, John,” he said.

John shifted, trying to cross his legs but slipping down in the tub and nearly drowning himself again instead. “Just a little hard to focus when I’m naked,” he said.

“Please,” Sherlock said. “I’ve seen your penis dozens of times. Now, one victim in particular noticed—”

“What?” John had a feeling the whole of his body had flushed red. “ _When_?”

“Whenever you wear the striped dressing gown,” Sherlock said, seeming confused as to why they were still talking about this. “It doesn’t tie closed nearly as well as you think it does, so whenever you emerge from the loo after a shower…”

“Oh god,” John moaned. He rubbed his hands over his face, then immediately remembered that his hands were meant to be covering a very specific part of himself. “Oh _god._ ”

“Relax,” Sherlock said. “You have a perfectly nice penis.”

“I’m in hell,” John said, squeezing his eyes closed. “This must be hell.”

“Anyway,” Sherlock continued, “my theory is that the killer does something to improve his ability to monitor the house. Perhaps he utilizes recording devices of some sort, or tampers with a window so he can sneak in and out. Regardless, we need to be sure to give him time—”

“ _Out,_ ” John shouted, pointing at the door. “ _Let me bathe in peace_.”

Sherlock looked genuinely offended, but he stood and moved towards the door. “If we were boyfriends,” he said, “this would be a commonplace practice.”

“We’re not boyfriends,” John snapped, trying desperately to rearrange the flannel, which had slipped away from his cock. “And this isn’t commonplace.”

“Very well,” Sherlock said. “I’ll let you get back to masturbating.” With that, he left the loo, closing the door behind him.

John actually _did_ try to drown himself then.

* * *

“How are things going at the cottage?” Gilly asked. She was on a break at work, lounging back in her office chair. John could see her little knick knacks—little miniatures of cats, photographs of her and some friends on holiday by a waterfall, a tape dispenser shaped like a high heel—scattered about her desk in the background of the video call. Gilly wore a large blue bow in her hair today. Between that and her pink dress, she looked at least five years younger. John, on the other hand, felt old and a bit discombobulated.

“Good,” he said, ignoring the fact that he and Sherlock had done a bit of cuddling the night before and Sherlock walked in on him masturbating no more than ten minutes ago. It didn’t seem like any of that information would make Gilly very happy. “It’s nice. Picturesque.”

Finding a spot to video-chat with Gilly this morning was a bit of a challenge. John certainly didn’t want to do so in bed, for fear that it might remind Gilly to ask about the sleeping arrangements. Sherlock was downstairs and would most certainly interrupt the conversation with rude comments or his general stroppy presence. Besides, John didn’t feel quite up to making eye contact with Sherlock just yet. As John wasn’t interested in talking to Gilly while hiding out in the loo, he was currently seated on the floor of the bedroom, the camera on his mobile pointed strategically away from the bed. The hard floor was doing a number on his arse, but he figured it was the lesser of all the evils.

“Does Sherlock have a plan for catching the serial killer yet?” Gilly asked.

“Um,” John said. “We’re going into town for a bit today. Sherlock thinks that the killer will watch us for a bit, then go back to the cottage and dismantle the locks.”

Gilly wrinkled her nose. “The property owners will have to pay for that damage,” she said. “It’ll make the cottage’s nightly rental price drop as well.”

“Yeah,” John said. “So would a murder, I would think.”

“Oh certainly,” Gilly said, her eyes widening. “They wouldn’t be able to rent the property out for _ages_ after that.”

John considered that Gilly might be missing the point regarding what was so bad about murder. Gilly and Sherlock seemed a bit similar in that manner. He wondered why Sherlock seemed to dislike Gilly so much.

“So,” Gilly said. “Does you two being in town mean…”

“Yeah,” John said. “More pretending to be boyfriends.”

“Juicy,” Gilly grinned. “And what will that entail?”

“Mostly just looking like we tolerate each other,” John said, thinking it’d be best to minimize Sherlock’s propensity for physical affection, as well as his discussion about not-quite kissing each other. “Maybe hold hands. Nothing too scandalous.”

“Sherlock holds hands?” Gilly’s eyes widened.

“Um,” John said. “Yeah, actually. It’s a bit odd. I wouldn’t have thought he would tolerate it.”

“And what do _you_ think of it, poppet?” Gilly asked. The question seemed like the type with very specific right and wrong answers.

“It’s just for a case,” John said. “It doesn’t mean anything, remember? This doesn’t change anything between me and you, it doesn’t change anything between me and Sherlock.” However, John was starting to wonder if that sentiment was ever so slightly not true.

“Sorry,” Gilly’s shoulders slumped. “I said I wouldn’t do that, didn’t I? I told you I trust you, and I meant it. If you say there’s nothing between you and Sherlock, I believe you.”

“There’s nothing between me and Sherlock,” John repeated, although for the first time out of the hundreds of times he had spoken that sentence, he felt it to be not entirely the truth.

“And I believe you,” Gilly said. She sighed. She shook her head. “My bloody ex.”

“I know,” John said.

“I just wish he could know what he did to me, destroying my trust like that,” Gilly said. “A part of me almost wishes he wasn’t dead just so I could tell him.”

John’s brow furrowed. “He’s dead?”

“Oh,” Gilly said. “Did I not tell you? Yeah. He died. A few years back, at this point.”

“Wow,” John said. “Yeah, I didn’t know.” It seemed a bit odd that she hadn’t mentioned this prior, given how much she talked about what a terrible person her ex was. It would appear Gilly and Sherlock had more than a little bit in common regarding how inconsequential they found death at times.

“Killed in a car accident,” Gilly said. “The brakes in his car failed. He smashed into a truck. One of those freak things, you know? I always get the brakes checked on my car now, at least once a year. You never know.”

“Yeah,” John said. “You never know. So,” he cleared his throat, “how come you’ve never told me—”

The door flew open, slamming against the wall. Sherlock burst into the room.

“John,” he snapped. “Let’s _go_. We can’t keep the Holiday Killer waiting. He’ll grow bored of us and murder somebody else.”

John had his hand on his chest, trying to calm himself from the near heart attack Sherlock just caused. “Right,” he said. “I’ll be ready as soon as I finish up with—”

“ _Now,_ ” Sherlock said. “Perhaps you’d have longer to chat with your girlfriend if you hadn’t taken so much time in the bath.”

“Sherlock…” John started.

“Did he leave a dent in the wall when he kicked open the door?” Gilly asked. “They’ll take that out of your deposit, you know. The property owners will have to fix it up before it’s rented again.”

“ _He’ll have to phone you back,_ ” Sherlock called, “ _when we return to London. You might not have heard, but there’s a serial killer on the loose._ ”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John hissed. “Give me a _minute_.”

“ _We’d be making much better time this morning,”_ Sherlock continued, ignoring John _, “if your poppet hadn’t spent so long masturbating_.”

“Jesus.” John pressed his eyes closed. He kept them closed. He rather hoped that if he kept them closed for long enough, he would be transported to another time and place, far from here. He heard the door close and Sherlock’s footsteps go back down the stairs.

“So,” Gilly said. “You tried out the clawfoot tub, then?”

John forced himself to look at her. “Yep,” he said.

Gilly had a very interesting smile plastered to her face. It was borderline unreadable. “Did you enjoy it?” she asked.

“Not really,” John said. “Sherlock decided to barge in—” He stopped himself, sighing at his own admission. _Sherlock decided to barge in on me having a wank._ Great.

Gilly propped her chin on an elbow. “What did you think about?” she asked.

Jesus Christ. “I’d best be going,” John said. “We’ve a serial killer to lure.” _And with any luck,_ John thought, _he’ll kill me._

* * *

Market Square in Keswick was another quintessential English-countryside stop, with narrow streets, ancient stone buildings, and wall-to-wall tourists. It reminded John why he elected to avoid holidays in the English countryside.

“Fantastic,” Sherlock whispered, squeezing at John’s hand as he plunged them directly into the crowd. “Just think, John—any one of these people could be the Holiday Killer, out to murder us.”

“Again,” John said, “a bit of a different definition of _fantastic._ ”

Sherlock’s act as John’s boyfriend began as soon as he parked the car and barely before John had time to put his feet on the pavement. He wrapped an arm around John and nearly carried him down the street, the two of them walking with arms tucked around their waists until John grew tired of nearly tripping over Sherlock’s feet every few steps and opted for hand-holding instead. Sherlock begrudgingly acquiesced, although he insisted upon stopping the two of them periodically so he could do something wholly distracting in front of the sea of tourists, like wrap his arms around John, lean the whole of his body against John’s side, and—three times—press a not-quite kiss to John’s forehead.

“Are you trying to ensure that every individual person in the city knows that you and I are in a relationship?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. And that settled that.

Sherlock seemed to select where they would walk and the shops they would enter based solely on the number of human bodies already occupying said space, the more densely packed the better. More witnesses, it would seem.

“We want the killer to feel like he can stalk us and remain undetected,” Sherlock said. “There is security in a crowd. Someone can watch your every movement and you would never once know.”

“That,” John said, “is not comforting.”

“It’s not meant to be,” Sherlock said, tugging John into a sweets shop, where he proceeded to swing John into his arms and declare that the smell of chocolate made him horny. John’s face burned, and he was reasonably certain he would dissolve into a pile of ash by the end of the day.

Eventually, John grew used to weaving through the crowds, dragged along by Sherlock’s hand and tossing an apology over his shoulder as he brushed against some disgruntled tourist. John had never been one for crowds, and he found himself particularly wary of them after returning home from Afghanistan. Too much could go wrong in a crowd, and far too quickly. This kind of scene—a mess of loud and distracted tourists—would be exactly the sort of thing John was keen to avoid. However, there was something comforting about being tethered to Sherlock during all of it. Sherlock’s hand was warm and his grip was firm and he led with confidence, his sharp eyes scanning every detail of the crowd for anything amiss. John found he had very little to complain about regarding the physical contact. On the infrequent occasions that Sherlock dropped his hand—and they were infrequent indeed—John found he missed the touch.

They were waiting outside a restaurant for a table—Sherlock chose a spot for dinner that, again, was based on number of people inside the restaurant—when John heard somebody calling their names. He glanced up and saw Hugh jogging towards them, large smile on his face. Sherlock wrapped his arm around John in preparation for the encounter, nearly knocking the wind out of him.

“Hello boys,” Hugh said. “How are you enjoying the cottage?”

“It’s very lovely,” John said, recovering from Sherlock’s near-assault.

“John was enjoying the bathtub just this morning,” Sherlock said, nuzzling his nose against John’s hair.

“So you’re going to tell everyone about that, then?” John asked.

“It’s a great tub, isn’t it?” Hugh asked.

“John certainly thought so,” Sherlock said.

John hoped that his harder-than-ideal smack against Sherlock’s arm would be perceived as flirty and not as embarrassed and irritated.

“Have you two tried the fireplace yet?” Hugh asked. “Every guest we’ve had loved it.”

“Um,” John remembered his offer to prove himself to Sherlock in front of the fire and suddenly found his face growing warm.

“Not yet,” Sherlock said, doing something like pouting in John’s direction. “You’ll have to light a fire for me, John.”

The pretend-boyfriend version of Sherlock would have said _darling_ just then, John knew. However, Sherlock—remembering John’s dislike for pet names—chose to say his name instead. It made his name sound different, close to an endearment, and there was something so _Sherlock_ about the moment that John found himself melting a little. His heart stuttered and John cursed everything.

“Yeah,” he said, praying that his mask hadn’t faded too obviously as he looked up into Sherlock’s eyes. “Yeah. I will.”

Fortunately, a waiter came to let them know their table was ready before John had a chance to fall any further.

_It means nothing,_ John reminded himself. _None of this means anything._ Still, he couldn’t help but noticed that he gripped Sherlock’s hand all the harder as the waiter led the two of them to their table. And the hand he placed gently on the small of Sherlock’s back as he sat down—that wasn’t strictly necessary, now was it?

* * *

The restaurant Sherlock chose turned out to be quite nice, and a bit fancier than John was typically comfortable with. The lights were dim and candles flickered across the room and on the tables. John swore he could hear faint classical music playing from somewhere. He wondered if he was underdressed, with his jeans and jumper. Sherlock, of course, was never underdressed. With his immaculate suits that hugged the curves of his body and accentuated his lean figure in the best ways, Sherlock always looked like something that ought to be on display somewhere posh.

Anyway, that’s when John realized he was staring. He reoriented his attention to his menu, doing his best to study it in-depth while taking deep breaths.

Sherlock’s show was by no means finished after they sat down. He grabbed at John’s hand as the waiter came by, running his thumb over John’s palm in a way that John was not certain the waiter could actually see. Sherlock ordered for the both of them—something that would have bothered John were it not for the fact that of _course_ Sherlock had managed to deduce what John would have ordered for himself with complete accuracy. John ordered himself a glass of wine because he definitely, _definitely_ needed a drink.

“My assessments of the remaining victims’ social media pages revealed just as much falsehood as the others,” Sherlock said as John took a long sip of his wine.

“That’s social media for you,” John said. “Not sure what you were expecting.”

“You know that four of them weren’t even honest about their age?” Sherlock said. “Of all the boring things to lie about.”

“More common than you think,” John said, recalling an astounding number of internet dates he’d experienced where, midway through, his date admitted to this very lie.

“One of them was unemployed for the better part of a year before she died,” Sherlock said, “and went on pretending as if she had a job. Another one hid the fact that he was homosexual from his family, friends, and girlfriend. _Oh,_ ” Sherlock was ticking these off on his fingers, “ _three_ more of the victims were having affairs. Technically four. In one set of victims, _both_ members of the couple were having an affair.”

“Wow,” John said. “That’s a lot.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Why can’t people just be _honest_ with each other? It’s so much simpler.”

“Sometimes it isn’t,” John said, taking another inadvisably long sip of his wine. “Sometimes the lie is easier than the truth.”

“That is a nonsensical premise,” Sherlock said. “Masquerading around in a falsehood is and never will be the simpler or the more logical choice.”

“You know,” John said, “you pretend to be something you’re not at times too.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I do _not_.”

“You do too,” John said. “You pretend to be all cool. Arrogant. A brilliant, unfeeling detective. But inside you’re just a big softie.”

Sherlock looked as if he might slap John in the middle of the restaurant. “I am _not_ ,” he hissed, “a _softie._ ”

“Yes you are,” John said. “You brought treats in your pocket when we went to that client’s house who had a dog. I saw you feeding the dog the treats when you thought no one was looking. That wasn’t the first time you’ve done that, either.”

Sherlock looked away. “He was a good dog,” he said.

“And you’re less of an arsehole around children,” John said.

Sherlock shook his head. “I merely exercise restraint,” he said.

“Yeah,” John said. “Which you do with no one else. Thus, less of an arsehole.”

“I don’t think it counts,” Sherlock muttered.

“You’d practically take a bullet for Mrs. Hudson.”

“Well,” Sherlock considered, “she is a worthy person to take a bullet for.”

“And me,” John said, his eyes dipping low. “You’ve been incredibly kind to me. Taking me in as a flatmate. Having me help with cases. Giving me...” he swallowed, aware that he was saying too much, giving too much away, “a purpose.” He wondered if it was the wine making him lose his ability to shut the hell up.

When John found the courage to glance up at Sherlock, Sherlock was studying him with an expression John couldn’t quite read. “Of course, John,” Sherlock said. “I—” he shook his head. “Of course.”

The waiter brought over their plates and they picked at their respective meals in silence. Sherlock, John knew, didn’t eat much on a case, which John figured was the reason for Sherlock’s plate remaining full well into the meal. For John’s part, he was experiencing a concerning case of something that felt an awful lot like butterflies in the stomach, which made little to no sense. The wine—finding itself mostly alone in John’s stomach—seemed to be going to his head faster than usual. John felt warm and happy.

John cleared his throat. “I notice you stopped with the pet names,” he said.

Sherlock shrugged. “You don’t like it.”

“Yeah,” John said, “but if it makes this whole thing more convincing you can keep on with it. If it’ll help us catch the killer, that is.”

“You don’t like it,” Sherlock repeated. “You’ll act more naturally if I behave in ways you like. You won’t have to feign happiness.” Sherlock glanced down at his food. “You won’t have to feign as _much_ happiness, anyway.”

_I don’t have to feign any amount of happiness with you,_ John thought. The words were nearly out of his mouth before he stopped himself. He went to take a sip of his wine, but wondered if he’d had enough wine for the night. “Well,” he said. “It was considerate of you, anyway.”

“I can be considerate,” Sherlock said.

“I know,” John said, completely unable to stop the smile that flickered across his face. Sherlock glanced up at him and John saw a little smile twitch on Sherlock’s lips as well. John felt soft and buzzing—the wine, he told himself—and it seemed as if he could sit across from Sherlock and smile like an arsehole all night.

The waiter walked by and Sherlock grabbed John’s hand, staring at him in a way that could only be described as _lovingly_. John couldn’t help but smile back—it seemed involuntary whenever Sherlock looked at him like that. The waiter busied himself at a different table and Sherlock loosened his grip but didn’t let go. John did nothing to move his hand either.

“So,” John said, clearing his throat. “What happened?”

“Hmm?”

“Why don’t you date anymore?” John asked. “You don’t seem half bad at it.”

“I’m not half bad at fencing either,” Sherlock said. “But I rarely fence all the same.”

“So no interest anymore?” John asked. “At all? In relationships, I mean?”

Sherlock’s eyes dropped to the table. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said.

John did his best to incorporate this new information into his brain. It seemed as if he had learned more about Sherlock’s romantic history in the past twenty-four hours than he had in the three years he had known the man. “How long has it been?” John asked. “Since the last time you were in a relationship? A real one, I mean.” He nodded at their joined hands.

“Three years and five months,” Sherlock said.

“That’s…” John furrowed his brow. “That’s right before we met.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said. He released John’s hand and began to poke at the remnants of his meal with a fork.

“That’s...wow.” John shook his head. “Why don’t I know about this?”

Sherlock shrugged. “You never asked.”

“Okay,” John said. “So I’m asking now. You were in a relationship up until right before you met me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

John waited. When it was clear Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything else on the subject, he waved a hand. “Care to elaborate?”

Sherlock sighed. “It was fairly serious, I suppose,” he said. Some would consider it serious, anyway. He and I had been living together. Then,” he waved a hand, “it went sour. And I moved out. Found the flat at Baker Street. You know the rest.”

“How long were the two of you together?” John asked. He pushed his plate ever so slightly away from himself. Something about the thought of Sherlock in a relationship with somebody— _living_ with somebody—was making him lose his appetite.

“Just over a year,” Sherlock said.

“Wow,” John said. Not a brief relationship, then. Time to really get to know a person. Time to be...intimate. John’s appetite was definitely gone now. “So,” John said, his mouth suddenly dry. “Did you love him?”

Sherlock was busy separating his food into neat piles on his plate. Rice in one pile, greens in another pile, and meat in a third. “I thought I did,” he said. “As it turns out, I was mistaken.”

John’s mind boggled. His imagination had gone a bit wild at the thought of Sherlock thinking he was in love, flooding his mind with images of Sherlock cuddled in bed with his partner, grinning at his partner with that smile that crinkled his eyes, whispering _I love yous_ into his partner’s ear. John had gone past losing his appetite and was now worried he might actually be sick.

“When we first met,” John said, his voice quiet and odd, “you said you were married to your work. You said you weren’t looking for a relationship.”

“I wasn’t,” Sherlock said. Rice. Greens. Meats. Neat piles. “The termination of the relationship got a bit nasty. It distracted me from the work. It was challenging not to slip into...bad habits. I decided it was best that I refrain from any romantic relationships on a more permanent basis. I wasn’t well-suited for them, and they hardly seemed worth the trouble.”

“So,” John said. “Three years and five months. You haven’t been with anybody in three years and five months?”

“No,” Sherlock said, staring at the table. He twiddled with his fork.

“Why not?” John asked.

Sherlock looked up at John with an expression that was usually reserved for instances where John was unable to see a clue that Sherlock found to be the most obvious thing in the world. John was not a particular fan of that expression.

“All that time,” John asked, “you never met anybody you were interested in?”

Sherlock’s gaze dropped back to the table. Having already neatly sorted his food, he began the task of re-arranging the piles, shuffling them from one side of the plate to another. His jaw went stiff. “Meeting somebody I am interested in,” he said, “and having that individual be interested in me in return are, as it turns out, two separate matters.”

“Ah,” John said, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. He felt it necessary for his gaze to drop down to his plate as well. A part of him considered asking Sherlock further questions, but he was fairly sure that if he ever learned specific names of individuals in which Sherlock was interested he might never be able to eat again. “Well. For what it’s worth. So far I’ve found you to be a lovely boyfriend.”

Sherlock snorted. “A lovely _fake_ boyfriend.”

“Well,” John said, “what’s the difference then? Between Sherlock Holmes as a fake boyfriend and Sherlock Holmes as a real boyfriend?”

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. “Why?”

John shrugged, taking a sip of his wine. “I want to know. You’ve seen me in relationships, you know how I am. I have no idea how you are.”

“You know enough,” Sherlock said, eyes back on his plate. “It’s not all that different from how…” he gestured between the two of them, “we are.”

“Ah,” John said. A moment of silence fell between the two of them, seeming to scream words that John couldn’t quite hear.

“I don’t prefer pet names either,” Sherlock said. “They’re idiotic.”

“On that, we agree,” John chuckled. “What about hugging, cuddling, all that?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Physicality has never bothered me. Although I suppose I engage in those behaviors at a less frequent rate than I do when it’s fake. It’s more to prove a point when it’s fake, anyway.”

As if on cue, the waiter walked by again, smiling at the table. Sherlock grabbed at John’s hands once more, proving his point.

“Otherwise,” Sherlock said once the waiter was safely out of earshot, “I’m afraid I’m simply myself. Playing the violin when I think, not talking for hours on end—that sort of thing.” He tapped his thumb against John’s hand. “It’s the _being myself_ bit that I wager is difficult to handle.”

John frowned. “That’s bollocks,” he said.

Sherlock chuckled. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” John said. “Part of the good bit of dating you would be dating…” he gestured, waving a hand at Sherlock, “ _you._ ”

Sherlock looked incredulous.

“What I mean is,” John said, the warmth of the wine making him feel as if words were leaving his mouth without permission, “if I was to be in a relationship with you, it would be because I knew _you_. Knew who _you_ are, the brilliant, genius, consulting detective who happens to be a bit of an arsehole to anyone who isn’t a dog or a child.” John could feel his cheeks flush and knew that he was oversharing a bit, but couldn’t seem to make himself stop. “I wouldn’t want you to be any different than exactly how you are.”

Sherlock blinked at their hands, still joined on the table. “That’s…kind,” he said. His lips twitched ever so slightly, as if his brain just reminded him of something unpleasant. “Irrelevant,” he said. “But kind.”

“Yeah,” John said, his gaze dropping to their joined hands as well. These sorts of talks, they were all hypothetical, weren’t they? Sherlock may experience some level of attraction to other human beings after all, but there seemed to be no evidence that he experienced any of that attraction for John. All of this was fake—it meant nothing, and it was starting to feel a bit cruel. Not to mention, John reminded himself, he had a girlfriend. “Irrelevant.”

At this point, the restaurant was fairly empty, all but a few patrons remaining at sparse tables. The waiter hadn’t been by in a while, likely preoccupied with tidying up the place for the night. Nobody in particular was around for them to trick into thinking they were a couple. And yet, they carried on holding hands long into the night.

* * *

Sherlock was back to his investigation of the social media pages of the various victims when John came to bed. He had John’s laptop sitting on the bed, shuffling through several different pages in a manner that made John’s head spin.

“You brought my laptop?” John asked, propping himself against the headboard next to Sherlock.

“I’ve done some calculations,” Sherlock said, ignoring John’s question. “It seems as if the Holiday Killer is most likely to strike on the fourth or fifth day of the holiday.”

“Sounds like we’ve got a bit of time left before we’re murdered,” John said. “Good to know.”

“This leads me to believe that there is much more stalking involved before the actual murder than I originally thought,” Sherlock said. “The killer likely chooses the victims and then studies their movements, their habits. We should be on the lookout for anything amiss in our immediate environment. We can certainly expect the killer to break into the cottage while we’re away to dismantle security measures.”

“That’s…” John frowned, “unnerving.”

“I checked the locks when we returned,” Sherlock said. “Nothing appears to be tampered with yet.” He seemed genuinely disappointed by this fact.

“So no serial killer will come to murder us tonight, then?” John asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Sherlock said. He pursed his lips. “I hope we’ve made ourselves attractive enough as victims for this killer. Perhaps we should have increased the physical affection while we were in town today. _Really_ dangled ourselves out there.”

John wasn’t certain if he could handle any increase in physical affection from Sherlock without imploding in some manner. He was barely handling the contact as it were. He rubbed at Sherlock’s back. “I’m sure the serial killer will be by to cut us to bits in no time,” he said.

“Mmmm,” Sherlock said, shutting the lid of the laptop. “Hopefully so.” He placed the laptop on the floor and slid under the covers, leaving John to manage the lights. John pushed himself down onto the bed beside Sherlock, staring at the ceiling and doing his best to ignore the close proximity of Sherlock’s warm body.

“I suppose it ought to be scary,” John said.

“Mmm?”

“Lying here in the dark, waiting for a serial killer to come get us,” John said. “Slit our throats. Chop off our hands. Take out our eyes. Most people would find it scary.”

Sherlock turned his head towards John. “But you don’t,” he said.

“No,” John said. “I don’t. You don’t either.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said.

John chuckled. “What’s that say about the two of us, then?”

John felt Sherlock’s knuckles brush against his under the sheets. “I believe it means,” Sherlock said, “that the two of us work very well together.”

_Made for each other,_ John thought. He slipped his hand around Sherlock’s, weaving their fingers together.

“Yes,” John said, “we do.” When he tilted his head to the side, Sherlock’s eyes were on his. John smiled and Sherlock smiled back, that smile that crinkled his eyes.

_Made for each other,_ Sherlock’s smile said.

That was how they drifted off, hand-in-hand, happily waiting for a serial killer to come and chop them to pieces. John couldn’t have imagined a better way to fall asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

When John first drifted back into consciousness, it didn’t seem strange at all that someone else’s arms were around him. In fact, it felt nice. A set of arms were wrapped tightly around his back, holding him close, and he was tucked against someone’s chest, his nose buried in the warm-smelling collarbone of his bed-partner. He could feel a body breathing against him, the slow rise-and-fall of a chest pushing against his. His arms were around his bed-partner too, he slowly realized, tucked underneath their arms, clinging tightly to their back.

It took several moments before he realized that his bed-partner was Sherlock.

John stopped breathing.

Sometime in the night, he and Sherlock wrapped themselves up in each other. Sherlock’s arms wound around him, _enveloping_ him, holding him firmly against Sherlock’s chest. John had returned the favor, clutching tightly to Sherlock’s back. One of his arms was wedged underneath Sherlock’s waist and was starting to lose a bit of feeling. Their legs were tangled together; John’s knee was resting against one of Sherlock’s thighs. John’s nose was pressed to Sherlock’s neck and he could feel Sherlock’s skin on his lips. Sherlock’s mouth was in John’s hair, his breaths fluttering across John’s head. Nearly every part of them was touching and—god—it felt wonderful.

It shouldn’t feel this wonderful.

John’s brain reminded him that he hadn’t breathed in quite some time and spots were starting to dance behind his eyes. He sucked in a breath of air and with it came the scent of Sherlock, strong and close and _good_. How was it that Sherlock still smelled so bloody good first thing in the morning?

John’s cock began to take interest in the situation, plumping against his leg. No. No no no. He was far too physically close to Sherlock at the moment to sprout an erection. He didn’t want to send Sherlock flying from the bed in a disgusted fury. They were just faking, after all. Weren’t they still just faking? John ground his teeth together, biting at his tongue. He thought of dismembered corpses. He thought of his cantankerous great-aunt Wilma. He thought of the sewers of London. He wasn’t breathing again. The spots were back.

“If you could have your panic attack a little quieter,” Sherlock said. “Some of us are trying to sleep.” John could feel the rumble of Sherlock’s words against his lips. Oh Christ that was good.

“I’m not panicking,” John said. The words came out a bit rushed, on account of how little he had been breathing.

“Your muscles have developed something akin to rigor mortis, your heart rate has increased exponentially, your body temperature is soaring, and you appear to have stopped breathing,” Sherlock said. “Would you like me to continue?”

“No,” John said, forcing himself to breathe. “Not needed. Not panicking. Just…” He couldn’t think of an acceptable end to that sentence. _Beside myself? Convinced I’m still dreaming? Gobsmacked at how wonderful you feel, how perfect we feel together?_

“Panicking,” Sherlock said. His voice sounded tight, irritated. “Here. I’ll put you out of your misery.” At that, he unwound his arms from John and shifted away, sitting up in the bed and ruffling his hair.

The morning air was cold and John could feel Sherlock’s sudden absence in his bones. His brain searched for something he could say that would bring Sherlock back, that would get the two of them wrapped up together again, breathing each other in, connected at all points. He sighed. There wasn’t much of a point to that, now was there?

“I wasn’t panicking,” John said, rolling onto his back. He ran a hand over his face. At least his erection was gone now.

“Your mobile has been buzzing,” Sherlock said. “Likely your _poppet._ ” He pushed himself out of bed and disappeared into the loo, slamming the door behind him.

John fumbled for his mobile, feeling like more than a bit of an arsehole and not particularly sure why. He checked his messages and, indeed, Gilly sent him several texts already this morning.

_Good morning, poppet :)_

_Did you sleep well?_

_I never heard from you last night—how was your evening? What did you have for dinner?_

_How’s the boyfriend?_

_Call me when you get a chance_

_Are you awake yet?_

John set his mobile back on the nightstand. This was a lot for first thing in the morning, and his head was still spinning after waking up in Sherlock’s arms. He decided it was best that he put some distance between his morning cuddling with Sherlock and calling his girlfriend. At the very least, he needed some time to wrap his head around what just happened.

God, though—it had felt good.

John could barely comprehend how right it had felt, waking up with Sherlock like that. Ordinarily, he hated when he woke up with a partner wrapped around him. Sometimes, he felt smothered if so much as an arm was pressed against his back. He felt stifled and overheated and shifted around in the bed until either they got up or he did. With Sherlock, he could have stayed there for hours, just feeling Sherlock’s heart pound against his. He hated that Sherlock had gotten out of bed.

He missed Sherlock again, John realized. He missed Sherlock, and he was only in the loo.

John reminded himself that they would have the day together. They would be out exploring the town again, or whatever Sherlock had planned. They would pretend to be a couple some more. They would hold hands as they walked down the street. Sherlock would snake his arm around John’s as they stood in shops. John could smile at Sherlock and watch him smile back. It would be lovely, all of it, even if it was all for show. John did not care for how much this train of thought made him feel like a lovesick teenager.

John pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and sighed. It felt as if he learned something he was never meant to know, something he could now never forget. What in the hell would he do when this case was solved and he and Sherlock returned to Baker Street, to their separate rooms, to their normal lives where they were decidedly _not_ a couple?

John’s mobile buzzed again and John cursed quietly.

Sherlock stormed out of the bathroom. “I can’t imagine how you are in any way focused on the case,” he snapped, “when your bloody mobile is going off all the time.”

John sat up. Sherlock had cleaned up a bit in the loo, and his hair looked perfect despite having just gotten out of bed. He wore his pyjamas and the blue dressing gown he brought from Baker Street and even still was a commanding presence in front of John, standing tall with his eyes snapping.

“It’s just Gilly,” John said.

“I am perfectly aware of who is texting you all the goddamn time,” Sherlock said. “Between the texts and the phone calls and the video chats, I can’t believe you have time to even eat, let alone help me solve this case.”

“Right,” John said, a bit defensive at Sherlock’s sudden attack, “because I’m only meant to give _you_ my undivided attention, is that right? You’re the only thing I’m meant to pay attention to?”

“At the moment, _yes,_ ” Sherlock said. “In case you’ve forgotten, John, we are attempting to catch a serial killer. I would venture to say that our endeavor is a bit more important than whatever tedious thing your _poppet_ has to say to you.”

“Will you stop calling her that?” John snapped. “Gilly. Her name is Gilly.”

“I don’t _care_ what her name is,” Sherlock said. “Her name could be Engelbert Humperdinck for all I care. You’re supposed to be helping me with the work, John. What’s the point of you if you aren’t _helping_?” Sherlock whirled around, storming out the bedroom door.

John whipped the covers off him, popping out of bed after Sherlock. “I _am_ bloody helping you, you arse,” he said.

Sherlock’s angry laugh came from the bottom of the stairs. “You’ve been about as helpful as a wax statue,” he said. “I should have just gotten one made. Then you’d be free to stay far away from me, back home with your bloody girlfriend.”

“What the hell do you want from me, Sherlock?” John snapped as he clambered down the stairs. “Do you want my attention one hundred and ten percent of the time? Do you want me to forgo my personal life, sleep, meals, bloody showering, all so I can focus on _you_?”

“Spare me the hyperbole,” Sherlock growled. He was in the kitchen now, storming around and accomplishing nothing. “All I ask of you is that you manage to choke out even an ounce of _feigned_ interest in being in any sort of romantic relationship with me so that we can catch his serial killer. Is the idea of a relationship with me—a fake one, at that—really so disgusting to you that you would rather people die?”

John blinked. He had no idea what Sherlock was on about. From his perspective, John had more than an ounce of interest in being in this relationship, and not very much of it felt feigned anymore. He had been concerned that Sherlock might find his interest appalling, although this clearly wasn’t the case. “Where the hell is this coming from, Sherlock?”

“You feign enough interest in your own romantic life,” Sherlock said, whipping the electric kettle towards the sink so quickly the cord shot out of the wall, “all I ask is that you steer a little in my direction for a few short hours so that we can solve this case. Maybe save a life, _doctor._ ”

“I don’t _feign interest_ in my romantic life,” John snapped, striding over to where Sherlock was filling the kettle in a manner that could only be described as _aggressively_.

“ _Please_ ,” Sherlock said. “Even an idiot would be able to tell you have little to no connection to the never-ending train of dubious conquests you’ve dangled under my nose.”

“I don’t _dangle_ —”

“No, _paraded_ is a more appropriate term,” Sherlock said, slamming the kettle on the counter with such force that nearly all the water was knocked back out. “Your bedroom door is a veritable revolving door of all the questionable bachelorettes in London. And then you tell me you’ve been with men as well. Can't wait until John Watson starts to add some male notches to his bedpost at Baker Street. This will be a valuable data collection opportunity for me to determine if _all_ of the people you fuck are meaningless wastes of space or just the women.” He sneered. “Something tells me it’s the former.” Sherlock flipped the switch on the kettle, which—being unplugged—did nothing.

“What the hell is your problem, Sherlock?” John shouted. He was a bit too close to Sherlock for comfort at the moment, and was worried he might throttle him soon.

“ _I’m_ not the one with the problem,” Sherlock snapped. He was rifling through a box of tea, flinging tea bags everywhere. “You’re the one who has no problem faking every second of a relationship with every breathing human in all of England with the sole exception of _me_.”

John’s confusion had flipped over on itself and was now a hot, indignant anger. “Where the _hell_ do you get off, giving me a lecture on my own love life?” he half-shouted. “Just because you’ve been voluntarily celibate for the past three years doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be.”

“Spare me the _poor Sherlock doesn’t understand relationships_ lecture.” The tea bags were strewn about the kitchen now, and Sherlock slammed the empty box on the counter. “It’s a tedious deflection.”

“You’re sitting there on your bloody high horse,” John growled, “shouting at me about the inadequacies of my relationships when you just told me last night you don’t think you’ve ever even been in love. How the hell did you become the authority on romance when you can’t even figure out how you’re meant to feel in a relationship?”

Sherlock took a step forward, crowding into John’s space until the two were practically chest-to-chest. Sherlock was looming over him, his height a menacing presence and the whole of him practically vibrating with anger. Still, when John stared into his pinched face he could have sworn he saw something at the edges, a deep hurt Sherlock was trying desperately to hide. “You don’t know a goddamn thing,” Sherlock hissed, “about what you’re saying.”

John could feel his anger start to crumble, no longer strong enough to carry the weight of everything currently working together to crush John’s chest to bits—the hurt, the sadness, the metric ton of disappointment that he and Sherlock were having this row only minutes after waking up together. His eyes bored into Sherlock’s—refusing to break the stare, refusing to back down—but he could feel the sting of angry tears starting to burn. His breath was unsteady and his head was aflame and his hands were shaking fists at his sides and still all he wanted to do was wrap himself around Sherlock, pulling him close and never letting go.

“You don’t know a goddamn thing either,” John said.

Something flickered across Sherlock’s face, a pain that made his face twitch and his eyes shimmer. “I clearly don’t,” he said, his voice steel. With that, he turned and strode from the cottage, slamming the front door behind him.

John stayed standing where he was for just a minute, stiff as a board and vibrating at the edges. Then he sunk into one of the kitchen chairs, all his energy focused on calming his breathing. The whole of his body was hot and shaking, and he felt the sick, angry tears needling away at his eyes. He had absolutely no idea how the two of them had gotten there, how waking up in each other’s arms transformed into the two of them shouting at each other in a matter of minutes. And about what? About John not being a convincing enough fake boyfriend? A convincing enough boyfriend in general?

In the end, John could hardly fault Sherlock for his jabs at John’s dubious conquests. John had certainly done his fair share of dating over the past few years, and he hadn’t felt anything particularly noteworthy for any of the people he dated. Gilly excluded, he supposed. Still, he prickled at this fact being thrown in his face in such a careless manner, and he _definitely_ balked at the idea that he couldn’t force any sort of convincing relationship with Sherlock. He had spent the morning trying to will away an erection at the man’s physical presence, goddamnit. Sherlock wouldn’t _want_ him to be any more convincing.

His mobile buzzed, a continuous sound, and John nearly leapt out of the chair. Gilly, calling to video chat.

“Shit,” John muttered. He wiped at his eyes and took several long, deep breaths before donning his fakest-looking smile and answering the phone.

“Hello darling,” Gilly chirped. Her smile faded as soon as she saw him. “Everything alright?”

John could see his reflection in the bottom corner of the screen and was well aware that he looked like a man who was very upset at the moment. He ruffled his hair—as if that would help anything—and widened his smile. He looked a bit mad, but it was the best he could muster. “Everything’s fine,” he said. “Just had it out a bit with Sherlock, is all. You know how he can be. The cock.”

“Oh dear,” Gilly said. “I hope you two didn’t break up.” She laughed wildly at her own joke, and John did his best to keep his smile on his face.

_We’d need to be together to break up,_ John thought. _And that is clearly not the case._

Gilly made a little sympathetic noise at John’s barely-cobbled-together smile. “You don’t like it when the two of you are at odds, do you?”

“I suppose not,” John said. “But no one really likes to have a row with their friends, now do they?” He purposefully omitted that this was a bit more than a row, that it seemed as if they both found a way to really hurt the other. He couldn’t stop thinking of Sherlock’s face at the end, valiantly trying to hide a look of hurt as he faced John.

“Well,” Gilly said. “I’ve had a brilliant idea that I think ought to cheer you up.”

“Alright,” John said. “I could certainly use a bit of cheering up at the moment.”

“Lovely,” Gilly said. She leaned back a bit, slipping further away from the camera. John could see that she was sitting on her sofa again, the brightly-colored one. She was wearing a floral print blouse that was also quite brightly colored. Her makeup was all pinks and blues. She looked, John decided, like a garden. “Well. I’ve been thinking, you see.”

John rubbed at an eye. “Thinking is always good.”

“You and I have been seeing each other for about a year, isn’t that right?”

“About that,” John said.

“And we love each other very much, don’t we?”

“Yes,” John said, although he still felt a bit too mixed-up to say it out loud.

“I certainly love you,” Gilly said. “I think you’re just about the loveliest man I’ve ever dated. And you know how hard it is for me to trust people, especially after…” She waved a hand.

“Yes,” John said. “I know.”

“I really think you’re someone I can trust, John,” Gilly said. “Am I right? Can I trust you?”

“Of course you can trust me,” John said, because that was the thing one said after a question like that. He certainly wasn’t going to tell her about how he had been feeling for Sherlock as of late; there wasn’t much of a point to that, seeing as how Sherlock didn’t and would likely never feel the same. And he _certainly_ wasn’t going to tell her about this morning, waking up in Sherlock’s arms and realizing it was about the only way he wanted to wake up from this point forward.

“And I know I was a bit of a mess when I first heard about this little case with you and Sherlock,” she continued. “Playing boyfriends and all that. I was just so worried about losing you. But I’ve nothing to worry about with Sherlock, right?”

“Not a thing,” John said, which was the truth, apparently.

“There’s nothing going on between the two of you,” Gilly said. “Right? Just platonic? Always was, always will be?”

“Exactly,” John said, and he couldn’t believe how much the single word hurt to say.

“Just what I thought,” Gilly said, beaming. “I knew I could trust you.”

“Good,” John said. “I trust you as well.” Of course, it was a bit easier to trust Gilly, with her easy manner and her smiles and her garden-like appearance. It was like trusting a flower. There wasn’t much a flower could ever do to harm you.

“Which is why,” Gilly said, “you and I ought to get married.”

John blinked. He was suddenly in serious danger of falling out of his chair. “What?” he asked.

“Married,” Gilly repeated. “You and I.”

“Married?” John asked. Somewhere in his brain, a little high-pitched noise started, like someone slowly letting the air out of a balloon.

“If you think about it,” Gilly said, “it makes perfect sense. We’ve been together for a while now. We love each other. We trust each other. We’ve no intentions of breaking up with each other. We’ve absolutely no desire to be with anyone else, neither of us.” She looked pointedly at John for that last bit.

“Right,” John said, because that was what he was supposed to say.

“So it’s clear,” Gilly said. “We should get married.”

“I—” John’s head was swimming. It felt a bit like the room was spinning. “Married?” He was repeating himself, he knew, but he wasn’t sure of what else to say.

“Of _course,_ silly,” Gilly laughed. She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those old-fashioned men who insists upon asking the woman himself.”

“No,” John said. “No. No, not old-fashioned. No.” It was too many _no_ s, but it happened to be the word that was ringing the loudest through John’s head at the moment.

“You’re panicking,” Gilly said.

John wished that everybody would stop accusing him of panicking this morning, although he had to admit that Gilly had a point. “Not panicking,” he said. “Just...caught a bit off-guard. That is, we haven’t exactly been dating _that_ long.”

“How long we’ve been together doesn’t really matter,” Gilly said. “What matters is how we feel about each other. All this time we’ve been dating, why have you stayed with me? What is it about me that you love?”

“Um,” John said. He was having trouble remembering Gilly’s name at the moment, let alone what he liked about her. “You’re a lot of fun,” he tried. “And I like your smile. And you’re like a garden.” He was aware this last bit didn’t make a lot of sense, but neither were most of John’s thoughts at the moment.

“See?” Gilly said. “And where exactly did you see this relationship going, John, if not to marriage?”

To be honest, John hadn’t exactly thought about it. They were having fun, he thought. They saw each other a few times a week, he slept over at her flat afterwards. They called and texted each other. She had gotten him a toothbrush. It all seemed like enough.

“Did you think we would break up someday?” Gilly asked. For a moment, her eyes threatened to fill with tears.

“ _No_ ,” John said quickly, although it was an easy thing to assume, seeing as that was how all his other relationships had ended. The endless parade of questionable bachelors and bachelorettes, as Sherlock called it. “No. Of course not. No.”

“Then we should get married,” Gilly said.

John’s mouth opened and closed. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of a single word to say.

Gilly laughed. “Would you like me to ask you properly? Get down on one knee?”

“No,” John said. “That’s not—”

But she was already moving, sliding off her couch and propping herself on the floor. John could still only see her face and shoulders, but he had a feeling she had a knee planted on her rainbow-colored throw rug. “John Watson,” she said. She corrected herself. “ _Doctor_ John Watson. Would you do me the honor of marrying me?”

John blinked, and it felt a bit like everything had frozen. The events of this morning had quite gotten away from John and he had no idea what was going on anymore. He found himself wishing to be waking up again, tangled up in Sherlock, face pressed to Sherlock’s neck and smelling his posh, earthy scent. However, there wasn’t very much a point to all of that, now was there? There wasn’t very much a point to him and Sherlock in any capacity, save for as friends and colleagues. Sherlock solving cases, John blogging about it, the both of them decidedly unattached to each other and forever remaining that way.

John didn’t have a future with Sherlock, that much was abundantly clear. It had been clear from the start, from the moment Sherlock politely declined his advances at Angelo’s. John had allowed himself to get a little swept away with the pageantry of this false relationship, but it was time for him to be realistic about his situation. And, John reasoned, just because he wouldn’t have a future with Sherlock didn’t mean he couldn’t have a future with someone else.

“Sure,” John said.

“Yes?” Gilly asked. Her voice was high, excited. She beamed.

John smiled. Gilly had a lovely smile, infectious. Like a cold. “Yes,” he said.

“ _Yes,_ ” Gilly cried. “Oh John, this is wonderful! We’re getting _married._ ”

“Yeah,” John said, flinching a bit as he heard her say it out loud for the first time. “We’re getting married.”

“Oh my _goodness._ ” Gilly had popped off the ground and appeared to be jumping up and down. “You’ve made me so _happy_. Married. We’re getting _married_.”

“Married,” John repeated. He felt himself laugh, a boggled, tenuous sound. “We’re getting married.” He laughed again, and this sound found his footing. He shook his head, grinned. “Married.”

Gilly was overjoyed, beaming and bouncing around her living room. He couldn’t help but smile as he watched her. She had quite a lot of energy to her, and her joy was palpable. She was happy, John thought. He had made her happy. Something about that fact made him feel a bit happy himself.

Then John looked up and the smile fell from his face. There, standing in the kitchen doorway, was Sherlock. How long he had been there, John wasn’t sure, but it was clear he had overheard enough of the conversation to piece together what had occurred. He looked like a man recently run through with a sword, staring at his attacker in surprise as he slowly bled out onto the blade. John felt very much like the man who stabbed him, a betrayal from a comrade, despite how nonsensical the idea was.

“Sherlock,” John said, and he couldn’t think of a single other thing to say.

“It would seem congratulations are in order,” Sherlock said, and it sounded as if he had to shove himself further onto the blade to even speak. Then he turned and strode from the cottage, leaving John alone with his fiancé.


	6. Chapter 6

As soon as John was able to get Gilly off the phone—she was already eagerly talking about dates and venues and John reasoned that he might be properly panicking now—he went to look for Sherlock. Sherlock wasn’t anywhere in the cottage and when John darted out the front door he found the car missing from the drive.

Great. So Sherlock had driven off somewhere, upset with John, leaving John stranded at the cottage with no way of chasing after him.

John stood in the empty driveway, tapping his fists against his legs and reminding himself of all the reasons why taking off down the long and largely isolated road after Sherlock was a bad idea, especially when there was supposed to be a serial killer after them. Instead, he pulled his mobile from his pocket and sent a text to Sherlock.

_Where are you?_

John stared down the empty road, willing their rental car to materialize. His mobile buzzed. He nearly dropped the bloody thing as he scrambled to answer it, but it was Gilly, asking him something or other about a June wedding. He didn’t answer her. His brain was on fire.

After fifteen minutes, it was clear that Sherlock wouldn’t be returning anytime soon. John went back inside and did his best to occupy his time. He took a shower, leaning out of the tub to check his mobile roughly once every minute. He had a go at making something to eat, but gave up midway through, his stomach far too choppy for food. He sent Sherlock another text.

_Any idea when you’ll be back?_

Sherlock, of course, didn’t respond.

John pulled out his laptop and did his best to comb through the social media sites of the victims, but he was never as good at pulling clues from photographs as Sherlock was. After a while, their dumb smiling faces began making John angry, and the ones Sherlock had told him were cheating on each other began making him feel oddly guilty. It didn’t help that he could barely focus, checking his mobile every few minutes.

Gilly texted him approximately fourteen times. Sherlock didn’t text at all.

John shot back cursory responses to Gilly’s questions about dates and venues and color themes, hoping that would quell the sheer volume of texts. Every time his mobile chimed, he jumped, thinking it was Sherlock. He wasn’t sure his heart could take much more. He tapped out another text to Sherlock.

_I’m sorry._

John pulled out a novel he brought with him and pretended to read. It didn’t even bother him very much when he hadn’t turned a page in over ten minutes. He figured staring at a book while waiting for Sherlock to text was slightly less pathetic than staring at his mobile while waiting for Sherlock to text. If the serial killer was spying on him at the moment, John had a feeling that he would be spared out of sheer pity.

An hour or so later, John heard the scrape of wheels in the driveway and nearly leapt out of his seat. He was still on the same page in his novel as he was an hour before, but he had managed to send Sherlock a series of what could clearly be interpreted as increasingly desperate texts. Dashing to the door upon hearing Sherlock return didn’t exactly make John look any less desperate, but he couldn’t be arsed to care at the moment.

However, when John got to the door, he realized that it was not Sherlock’s car in the driveway.

“Hello there,” Hugh called as he stepped out of his car. He looked a little surprised to see John. “I was just stopping by to check in on you gents, but I didn’t think you were home.” He gestured to the empty space in the driveway where the rental car wasn’t.

John did his best to make his face look the opposite of soul-crushingly disappointed. “Yeah,” he said. “Sherlock’s just...gone out. To get something.” Not very specific, that, but it was the best John could muster at the moment.

Hugh lifted a bottle from his passenger seat. “Just wanted to drop off some wine for you.” He waved the bottle in the air. “Local merchant sells it. I’m not much of a wine drinker myself, but my sister tells me it’s a good type. Thought you blokes might like it.”

“Ta,” John said, accepting the bottle. He didn’t know much about wines either, but the bottle looked fancy enough, with the winery name printed in a scrawling cursive. With the day he had so far, John could go for a drink. However, he remembered the way the wine last night made him feel, warm and glowing at Sherlock, and thought better of it.

Hugh smiled at John, hands stuffed in his pockets. “You two enjoying your visit so far?”

“Yeah,” John said. “It’s...nice.” He couldn’t think of a single other thing to say about the place.

“Used the fireplace yet?” Hugh asked. He winked.

“Ah,” John said. “No.” He didn’t quite know how to break it to Hugh that a fire no longer seemed to be on the agenda for their stay at the cottage.

“It’s a lovely fireplace,” Hugh said. “Heats the whole cottage up nice and warm. You two’ll have to light a fire before you leave.”

“Yeah,” John said. “We’ll have to. Maybe tonight.” _If Sherlock ever comes back._

As if reading his mind, a car appeared at the end of the drive, pulling slowly, almost reluctantly, up to the cottage. John could spy Sherlock behind the wheel, his face blank. John’s fingers went numb on the wine bottle and he nearly dropped the damn thing.

“Ah,” Hugh said. “There’s your boyfriend now.”

“Yeah,” John said, all eyes on Sherlock.

Sherlock exited the car and approached John and Hugh, his face carefully devoid of anything unpleasant.

“I was starting to get worried,” John said, only lying about the _starting to_ bit.

“Nothing to worry about, darling,” Sherlock said, his voice measured. John was very aware of the reemergence of the pet name. Sherlock placed a hand on John’s shoulder and pressed his lips to John’s kiss in something that seemed meant to look like but was decidedly not a kiss. He turned to Hugh. “Hello.”

“I was just checking in on you two,” Hugh said. “Did you enjoy your trip to town? Get what you needed?”

John realized that Sherlock—who he had claimed left to pick up something—had returned empty-handed. He shoved the bottle of wine at Sherlock. “Hugh brought this for us,” he said. “Isn’t that nice?”

Sherlock examined the bottle and made a humming noise. “A good year,” he said. “Seems the type of wine to drink when one has something to celebrate.” He pushed the bottle back into John’s hands with a bit more force than needed. John flinched.

“Well,” Hugh said. “I’ll get out of your hair. You boys know to call me if you need anything.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said. He slipped his hand around John’s waist as he waved at Hugh. His grip was much looser than usual, and his arm felt limp on John’s hips. John ran a hand along Sherlock’s back, taking advantage of whatever moments he had remaining to do so. _I’m still here,_ he wanted to say.

Hugh’s car was barely down the driveway when Sherlock dropped his hand from John and strode inside, the door slamming behind him. John took several deep breaths and followed Sherlock inside.

“Sherlock,” he said. “I think we need to talk.” He was still holding the bloody wine, for no reason other than giving him something to do with his hands.

Sherlock was already curled on the sofa, buried in John’s laptop. The clicks of the keyboard sounded slightly more forceful than strictly necessary. “I disagree,” he said.

John pressed on. “What you overheard this morning. With Gilly. It… It wasn’t…”

Sherlock’s gaze shot up to John’s. His eyes seemed deadly. “What?” he snapped. “It wasn’t what, John?”

John shifted the wine bottle from hand to hand. “It wasn’t…”

“It wasn’t you getting engaged?”

“Um…” This was already going rather poorly.

“In that case,” Sherlock said, “it sounds like I know exactly what I overheard and there is no need for further clarification.”

John took a deep breath. There was much he wanted to say. He wanted to tell Sherlock that waking up with him this morning made him happier than he could fully understand. He wanted to tell Sherlock that these past few days of faking a relationship with him somehow felt more right than nearly a year in an actual relationship with Gilly. He wanted to tell Sherlock that he had spent the full day in a panic, and the only thing slowing his heartbeat at the moment was Sherlock’s physical presence. He wanted to tell Sherlock that their fight nearly broke his heart, that the very idea of Sherlock thinking that John despised the idea of being in any sort of relationship with him turned his stomach. He wanted to tell Sherlock that the only part about this that was unbearable to him was that it was fake, and that when they got back to Baker Street it would all have to end. He wanted to tell Sherlock that he didn’t want it to end.

“Sherlock...” John started.

“I have already expressed,” Sherlock said, “that there is no need to talk about this. Despite your assertions to the contrary, I am well-versed enough in relationships to understand what I overheard this morning. The point of confusion, it would appear, is that you seem to think I ought to _care_ for some god-forsaken reason. To clarify—I decidedly do _not_.”

John’s throat closed up a bit. “I…”

“Now if you don’t mind,” Sherlock said, lifting his eyes from the laptop to once again shoot John with a look that seemed out for vengeance, “I am trying to catch a serial killer. I am trying to put a killer behind bars, possibly even saving a life or two in the process. I have officially run out of time and patience for your asinine relationship dramas.”

John nodded. Saying any of the things he wished to say, it would seem, was pointless. He stared down at the bottle of wine. He could see an imprint from his clammy hand on the glass. “Can I help?” His voice sounded small.

“Your help is not needed,” Sherlock said. His fingers were flying over the keyboard. “I am perfectly capable of solving these little crimes on my own. Your assistance is—and never has been—required. You may relieve yourself of that sense of obligation whenever you see fit and—if it’s not too much trouble—leave me the hell alone.”

John nodded again. He didn’t seem capable of speech at the moment. He turned, placed the bottle of wine on the kitchen table, and walked upstairs to the bedroom to take long, shaking breaths into his pillow.

Gilly texted him twenty-four times. He ignored all of them.

* * *

John woke the next morning with a terrible crick in his neck and the feeling that, through becoming engaged, he had managed to cock up just about everything in his life. His sleep the night before was restless and disjointed, a part of his brain remaining awake on the off-chance that Sherlock came to bed. He even kept the light on for Sherlock, what he hoped would be a clear invitation that Sherlock was welcome, that John was waiting. When he opened his eyes, the light was still on and the bed was empty. John groaned and closed his eyes again.

John’s mobile buzzed and he covered his head with a pillow. Gilly again. She had spent much of the day before texting him various details about their less-than-twenty-four-hours-old engagement. It nearly sounded as if she had half the wedding planned already. John’s tumultuous brain could barely make heads or tails of most of it, and he finally silenced her for the night by making up a story about doing some covert case-related task with Sherlock. It was likely ill-advised to begin an engagement with a lie, but the silent mobile was such a blessing that John didn’t much care.

However, Gilly started right back up again as soon as the sun was up. John supposed there was one silver lining to Sherlock having spent the night downstairs—hearing Gilly text so much was sure to put him in an even worse strop than he was already in. Hell, it was starting to frustrate John and this was his _fiancé_.

_Just let me have a moment,_ John thought. _I think I lost my best friend last night._ He made a sound into his pillow that was a little too close to a whimper for John’s taste.

John’s mobile buzzed again, a long, steady vibration. He flung the pillow off his head and across the room. Christ. Was Gilly _calling_ now? What more could she possibly have to say about their upcoming wedding that she hadn’t already said?

But it wasn’t Gilly. It was Mrs. Hudson. And she was video-calling him.

He sat up, answering in a panic.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he said, doing his best to straighten his hair from what looked to be an unfortunate case of bedhead. “What’s the matter?”

Mrs. Hudson did not appear to be hurt or in danger. She looked, instead, very angry. “John Watson,” she hissed. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

John blinked. “What?”

“How _could_ you?” she asked. “How could you get engaged to that _woman_?”

John’s head spun. How in the hell could Mrs. Hudson know about his engagement already? It only happened yesterday. Then he realized.

He sighed, shaking his head. “Sherlock,” he said.

“The poor man was texting me all evening,” Mrs. Hudson said. She seemed beside herself with fury. “How could you possibly do this to him, John? How could you be so cruel?”

“I’ve not done anything to him,” John said. “None of this has anything to do with him.”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, looking as if John said something so mind-bogglingly stupid that she hadn’t the first clue how to respond.

“This is _my_ life,” John said. “ _My_ relationship. He doesn’t have to have anything to do with it. Hell, he doesn’t even have to come to the bloody _wedding_ if he doesn’t want to.” Everything he was saying made sense, but even John could hear the error in his words. After all, Sherlock had been such a big part of John’s life—at times, the most important part of John’s life—for years now, and the thought of Sherlock having nothing to do with this development seemed unlikely.

“It has nothing to do with the _wedding_ ,” Mrs. Hudson spat. “You realize you’ll have to leave him? Move out of the flat?”

“Of course I realize that,” John said. He, in fact, had _not_ realized this until this very second. The thought was painful, much more painful than he’d like to admit.

“What do you expect him to do after you’ve gone? How do you expect him to carry on?”

“The same as he always has,” John said. “He certainly doesn’t _need_ me—” _He made that perfectly clear last night._

“No, _you_ certainly don’t need _him,_ ” Mrs. Hudson snapped. “You’ve made that perfectly clear.”

John shook his head. He ran a hand over his face. He could not believe that becoming engaged was a decision he had to defend to his landlady at half-seven in the morning. “Mrs. Hudson,” he said. “This changes nothing between Sherlock and I. We’ll still be mates. I’ll still help him with cases. I’ll carry on with the blog. I’ll be by to visit. _Often_.” That was, of course, assuming that Sherlock still wanted him around after, a thought that made stinging things start happening in John’s chest.

“You are stupendously dimwitted if you think it is just about helping with the cases for Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“ _Hey_ —”

“It’s not about the cases, John,” Mrs. Hudson said. “It’s never been about the cases. It’s about _you._ It’s about you and Sherlock and what you mean to each other.” Her look turned a bit sour. “Or rather, what _you_ mean to _him_. Based on how you’ve been acting as of late, it’s clear that he means nothing to you.”

“Jesus,” John said. He slipped out of bed to close the door. He certainly didn’t want Sherlock overhearing this conversation. “That is most definitely not true. Sherlock means…” _everything_ _to me,_ John was about to say, but stopped himself just as the words were about to leave his mouth. “Sherlock is very important to me,” he said instead.

Mrs. Hudson snorted. “Funny way you have of showing it, John Watson. Going off and getting engaged to that _woman_ —who doesn’t care for you half as much as Sherlock does—and breaking that poor man’s _heart_.”

John’s head spun. “Breaking his heart?” he asked. “I didn’t break his heart. I’m not even convinced he _has_ a heart.” _And if he did, he certainly wouldn’t give it to me_.

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes were wide. She looked as if John just told her he believed the earth was flat and run by lizard-people. “If you truly believe that,” she said, “you’re an even bigger idiot than I thought, John Watson.” She shook her head, done with him. “I hope you’re happy with yourself. And that _woman_.” With that, she hung up.

John blinked at his blank screen. What the hell just happened?

His brain sorted through the information he just received. He knew Sherlock was angry about John and Gilly’s engagement—that much was crystal clear—but John didn’t think he was so angry as to complain to Mrs. Hudson about the ordeal. For that matter, what could Sherlock possibly be so angry about? Did he really dislike Gilly that much? And, if Mrs. Hudson was to be believed, it seemed as if Sherlock was more than simply angry with John. _Broken-hearted_ , Mrs. Hudson had said.

John shook his head. Mrs. Hudson made it seem as if Sherlock was crushed by John’s engagement. She made him seem like some sort of jilted lover. Yet, that wasn’t the case, right? Stoic, mechanical, borderline sociopathic Sherlock couldn’t possibly _care_ for John, could he? The very possibility was enough to make John’s heart do a series of complicated acrobatics, and it _certainly_ made him look at the events of yesterday morning in a different light. John smacked himself on the brow. No. That way lay madness. All of this was irrelevant, after all.

John eased himself out of bed. He was no less confused, but he needed at least to get a move on with his day. Despite Sherlock’s assertions that John’s services were no longer needed, he was sure that Sherlock had some sort of plan for the case today and hoped very much that he could help.

Sherlock was in the sitting room when John came downstairs, looking to be in the same position he was in when John last saw him. He looked a bit wild-haired and bleary, as if he had been up all night driving himself ever so slightly crazy. John considered saying good morning but thought better of it. He walked into the kitchen and started filling the electric kettle and gathering up the tea bags that were still strewn about the counter from their row yesterday. Tea. Tea was important at the moment.

John heard Sherlock shift in the sitting room and John forced himself not to turn around to look at him. This silence between them was a vicious creature, with claws that tore at John. Sherlock always had something to say about everything, and even when John didn’t have the first bloody clue what Sherlock was talking about he enjoyed listening to him. The lack of words made John fear that something had broken between the two of them, something that was largely John’s fault. John could withstand quite a lot in this life. He had withstood the horrors of war, squared off against criminals, killed men, seen men die. Hell, he was currently locked away in a remote cottage, waiting for a serial killer to find him. None of that was particularly frightening. No—what was frightening, what frightened John the most of anything at the moment, was the thought of losing Sherlock.

_This is all irrelevant,_ John reminded himself.

Sherlock walked into the kitchen and John did his best to fiddle the kettle without making it apparent that he had stopped breathing.

“Morning,” John said.

Sherlock came up behind him and wrapped his arms around John’s chest and what was so surprising about it was how much it felt like a _relief_ , how Sherlock somehow looked inside John and found the one thing John wanted the most at the moment and gave it to him. John sighed and leaned back against Sherlock almost involuntarily and Sherlock tightened his arms around John. John’s hands stilled on the kettle and he allowed himself a moment, just the one moment, to be in Sherlock’s arms before he started asking questions about why this was all happening. Then Sherlock pressed his mouth against John’s cheek in a manner that was meant to look like a kiss but wasn’t a kiss and John knew it was acting. Sherlock was shamming again. John’s brow furrowed. The two of them didn’t need to pretend to be a couple in the cottage, where nobody was watching them.

“What’s going on?” John asked.

“I found something,” Sherlock said. His lips were against John’s cheek.

“Oh?” Sherlock’s arms were still wrapped around him, his chest pressed against John’s back. John would find it hard to concentrate in a moment.

“Act naturally,” Sherlock said. “We’re dating.”

“Okay,” John said. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s, squeezing at his forearms. “What did you find?”

“Cameras,” Sherlock said.

“ _Cameras_?” John started to spin, to turn to look at Sherlock, but Sherlock held him close.

“Careful,” Sherlock said. “We’re being watched.”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” John hissed. “Where did you find cameras?”

“There is one in every room, I wager,” Sherlock said. “One in the kitchen. Two in the sitting room. I haven’t checked the bedroom yet, but I am very sorry to report that there is one in the loo.”

“Great,” John muttered, remembering the events of yesterday morning. No such thing as a private wank in this cottage, it appeared.

“Video only,” Sherlock said. “No audio. We can speak freely, provided we don’t look suspicious.”

“You’re sure?”

“Quite sure,” Sherlock said. “I found them last night. Did quite a bit of research on them. They feed to a remote server. The killer can watch our movements from anywhere. They are expertly placed. Well-hidden, unless one knows exactly where to look. Here.” Sherlock turned John slightly away from the kitchen counter, pointing him towards the corner of the room. “I’m going to pretend to kiss your neck. When I do so, tilt your head and look to the corner of the ceiling. Only for a moment. Make it look as natural as possible.”

“I—” John said, but then Sherlock’s lips were against his neck, his head moving slightly, as if taking the time to give John a love-bite just over his pulse point. John tipped his head back and did his best to only make it look as if he were moaning. Sherlock’s breath was against him and his lips were soft and John’s eyes wanted to dip closed automatically but he forced them to stay open.

There, in the corner, a little black dot with a tiny blinking light.

John reached behind him, grabbing at Sherlock’s hair to let him know he’d spotted it. Sherlock lifted his head and spun John in his arms, backing him against the counter.

“So you’re just leaving them in, then?” John asked.

“Of course,” Sherlock said. “The cameras are an excellent sign, John. It means that the killer is watching us. We’ve just gained valuable information about how he stalks his victims.” Sherlock’s face was still soft, an attempt at looking like a loving boyfriend, but John could see the spark of excitement in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Or in this case,” John said, “how he stalks _us_.”

Sherlock ran his hands along John’s arms, their bodies were practically flush against each other. “Same difference. Unfortunately, it also means that we must continue our little ruse in the cottage as well. I’m already afraid that the distance between us has given up our game a bit.”

John studied Sherlock. The way Sherlock touched him now was sweet, doting. His face was open, his eyes gleaming with something that almost looked like remorse. An act, John knew. “Are you meant to look like you’re sorry right now?” John asked. “Like you’re apologizing to me?”

Sherlock ran a hand along the side of John’s face and John nearly leaned his cheek into the touch without thinking. “An observation of our behavior yesterday would clearly reveal that we were in a fight. Couple that with your frequent conversations with your significant other and I worry the killer may become rightfully suspicious. We have plenty of data on our side—our faux-relationship when in public coupled with our regular behaviors towards each other, which are akin to a couple who has been together for several years—so I am optimistic that we only have a small amount of catch-up to do to assuage any suspicions.” Sherlock’s hand was in John’s hair now. “Hence, an apology. Look like it’s working, if you would.”

It _was_ working, and it wasn’t even a real apology. John found his hands on Sherlock’s hips, rubbing gently. “We act like an old married couple?” He grinned.

“We act like a pair who know each other intimately,” Sherlock said, “and are comfortable in each other’s company. Now. We need to talk about the kissing.”

Sherlock almost certainly felt John’s heart stutter in his chest. “The what?” he asked.

“As we’ve established,” Sherlock said. “Couples kiss. The killer is meant to think we’re a couple. We’ve not kissed yet for the killer to observe. As such…” He lifted his eyebrows slightly. _Put two and two together, please._

“Oh,” John said. “Um.”

“Still not snogging, of course,” Sherlock said. “But as I mentioned before, there are other ways to make it seem as if we’re kissing without actually doing so.”

John chose to ignore his feeling of disappointment.

“I’ve scrutinized the camera angles,” Sherlock said. “From what I can tell, if we are standing in the kitchen just so—” he turned John’s body slightly to the side, so he was still pressed to the counter but Sherlock’s back was more squarely pointed to the camera, “it is possible for us to look as if we are kissing without our lips actually touching.” He stepped closer to John, sliding a hand along John’s cheek. “Close your eyes,” he said.

John did as instructed, and he felt Sherlock’s thumb graze over his lips. Sherlock closed in on him, his breath warm on John’s skin. John felt Sherlock’s thumb press more firmly over his mouth as Sherlock’s lips landed on his own skin, kissing himself instead of John. Sherlock’s nose grazed over John’s cheek and it wasn’t a kiss but John felt something light up in himself all the same. His hands tightened on Sherlock’s hips.

Sherlock pulled back from him but remained close, his hand still resting on John’s cheek. John forced himself to reopen his eyes. With his study in camera angles, Sherlock knew his face was hidden and allowed bits of himself to return to his expression, resulting in a devastating mix of loving-boyfriend and quintessential-Sherlock that was difficult to withstand.

“That is a viable workaround if we know the camera won’t capture a direct shot of our faces,” Sherlock said. “Unfortunately, with the two cameras in the sitting room, there is no way to hide from the video feed. If we organize a strategic kiss in that room, our options for faking are limited.”

“Ah,” John said. Sherlock’s eyes were so goddamn blue it was unfair.

“No tongues, of course,” Sherlock said. “But we’ll still need lip-to-lip contact. No way around it, I’m afraid.” He lifted John’s hand from his hip, holding it just in front of his mouth. “Likely chaste kisses will suffice—romantic partners don’t spend all of their time snogging. Closed lips. Nothing scandalous. But lingering. Longer than you’d kiss a relative.” He pressed a kiss to John’s knuckles, soft and sweet, just long enough to make John’s stomach flutter. A demonstration. Sherlock lifted his eyes to John. _See?_ his expression said.

John nodded.

To the camera, it likely looked like a tender moment, one lover apologizing to another with his body, with kind looks and soft touches. It was convincing, what Sherlock was doing. If any of this were real, John would have forgiven Sherlock ages ago. Hell, he would have forgiven Sherlock when Sherlock first wrapped his arms around John’s chest. What was happening now seemed a bit like overkill.

“Another strategy,” Sherlock said, John’s hand still close to his mouth, “is to take advantage of the tilting of the head to mask lip movements. Part the lips only slightly but move the jaw freely, mimicking deeper kissing.” Sherlock pressed his mouth to the center of John’s palm. John could feel only the barest traces of moisture from Sherlock’s lips, but Sherlock’s mouth moved against his hand, a pantomime of the passionate kiss that could have been. It was bloody unfair.

“Of course,” Sherlock said as he lowered John’s hand back to his hip, “one can always take advantage of one’s hands. A properly-placed hand on the cheek,” Sherlock demonstrated, placing his hand on John’s face, “can mask the mouth quite efficiently.”

John swallowed. He thought for a moment that Sherlock would lean in, providing a proper demonstration of how they could not-quite kiss. However, Sherlock remained just a few breaths away from John, his hand stroking gently against John’s cheek.

“Any questions?” Sherlock asked.

Loads. John had loads of questions, but none of them had anything to do with Sherlock’s various not-quite-kissing techniques. Not directly, anyway.

“Are you still apologizing?” John asked. “Right now, for the camera?”

“I am,” Sherlock said, moving his fingers along John’s temple to brush his hair back. “And you seem to be on your way to forgiving me. Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?” John asked, although he had a feeling that he already knew.

Sherlock tucked his head low, moving his mouth along John’s neck. It wasn’t a kiss, but his lips grazed John’s skin all the same. John’s arms moved around Sherlock’s shoulders on instinct. He could barely keep his eyes open, but he supposed it worked to his advantage. He was meant to look like the remains of an angry boyfriend, ready to forgive his partner of all his wrongdoings. At this point, John was doing little to no acting.

“Tonight is likely the night,” Sherlock said, moving his mouth to John’s jaw. “He’ll try to kill us tonight.”

John made a sort of sound that didn’t seem to consist of words.

“He’ll have things to do to prepare beforehand,” Sherlock said. His lips were against John’s cheek, scratching against his morning stubble. “Cut phone lines. Dismantle the locks on the windows. We’ll have to leave the cottage for most of the day. Go into town. Give him time to work. Give him time to think he’ll have us trapped.”

John turned his head against Sherlock’s, doing his best at pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek that was not anywhere near the kind of kiss he wanted. “That seems in direct opposition to any sort of survival strategy,” John said.

“I’m afraid it can’t be helped,” Sherlock said, cupping John’s face in his hands. His lips landed just to the right of John’s mouth, moving against the very crease of his frown. “Act like we’re kissing,” Sherlock said against John’s cheek. “Act like you’ve forgiven me. Act like we’re in love.”

And John didn’t have to act. His eyes slid closed and he moved his mouth against whatever part of Sherlock he could reach, but never the part he wanted. His hands were in Sherlock’s hair and he told himself he shouldn’t restrain himself because the cameras could see. His fingers slid into Sherlock’s curls and he closed them into fists, tugging with perhaps a little more force than was strictly needed. He heard Sherlock make a little gasp and the sound nearly did John in. He slipped a hand from Sherlock’s hair and pulled him in closer, closer, closer…

Oh. Right.

Sherlock pulled back ever so slightly. It was a kindness that he didn’t glance down to ascertain if he was feeling what he thought he was feeling in John’s trousers, although John had a sense he already deduced what it was. Sherlock blinked for just a moment, but regained his composure rapidly.

“It’s a physiological response,” Sherlock said. “Not to worry.”

John pressed his eyes closed. His face felt hot, and the moment was well and truly over. “Sorry,” he said.

Sherlock seemed unbothered, but he took another step back from John. “It’s useful, really,” Sherlock said. “It assists with the realism of the interaction. Another convincing moment for our audience.”

John, on the other hand, was in no way excited that a serial killer would observe his erection. “Well,” he said, carefully avoiding eye contact. “Anything I can do to help.”

John thought he saw a smile twitch at the corners of Sherlock’s lips, but he couldn’t be sure. “We should head to town soon,” Sherlock said. “Give the serial killer plenty of time to arrange the place to his liking when he comes to murder us tonight.”

“Seems only kind,” John said.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “You’ll like the loo first, I suppose?”

John’s face went hot again. “I...” he started. “I don’t…” He gave up. He felt a bit like fleeing, and disappearing into the loo would temporarily afford him that opportunity. “Sure,” he said. He adjusted himself in a manner that he hoped was discrete but was probably recorded forever in the hard drives of both Sherlock’s brain and the Holiday Killer’s computer.

Still, one glance at the blinking light of the tiny camera hidden away in the corner of the loo killed any desire John might have had to have a wank while cleaning up. Instead, he took a very, very, very cold shower. It was only somewhat effective.

* * *

The car ride into town made it clear that Sherlock was not yet out of his strop, effectively dashing whatever hopes John might have had that the events of the morning were anything but fake. With no cameras in the car to capture a lapse in loving-couple behaviors, Sherlock fell silent and sullen, responding to anything John said with no more than one or two biting words.

_Right,_ John thought, cursing his own idiocy. _What exactly did you expect?_ Their tender morning together, Sherlock’s presumed apology, it was all an act. John knew that. Sherlock had been nothing if not completely candid with him. The fact that John felt a bit crushed by the distance between them spoke to John’s own naïveté, he supposed.

“Anything in particular we’re to do while we’re in town?” John asked.

Sherlock sighed, a rough, irritated sound. “Why do you always insist on _talking_?” he snapped.

Right.

As if existing only to make John’s life worse, his mobile buzzed. John cursed, silencing it as quickly as possible.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, “if you would rather hole up in a corner somewhere and text your girlfriend like some pathetic _child_ , I am more than capable of managing without you.”

“Yeah,” John said, his tone short. “I got that, thanks.” He sent a quick text to Gilly. _Working the case with Sherlock. Best not to text for a while. A bit dangerous._ He decided to leave out that their case-related activity would be to walk around town to provide a serial killer with enough time to dismantle the locks at their cottage. That seemed like a story best told after the fact, when everyone was safe. He put his mobile back in his pocket. He could practically _hear_ Sherlock fuming next to him.

Attempting to talk to Sherlock was likely ill-advised, but John pushed forward anyway. He had a lot that he wanted to say to Sherlock, and not very much of an idea how to say any of it. “It won’t be any different, you know,” John said. “After…” He gestured, not exactly ready to say the words _I’m married_ out loud just yet. “I’ll still be around to help out with cases.”

“Was I not clear before?” Sherlock growled. “I don’t need your assistance.”

John flinched. “I know,” he said. “But. I’d still like to…”

“I need nothing from you, John,” Sherlock said. His angry eyes were glued to the road. His hands gripped the wheel as if it had wronged him in some manner.

“Sherlock…” This conversation was already going poorly and it had only just started.

“What on earth would make you think that you are of any value to me?” Sherlock’s voice was sharp, biting. “Do you really think you contribute in any meaningful way to my work? Do you really think you _help_?”

“Alright,” John said, hearing his voice go cold. “If I’m so worthless, then, what am I even doing here?”

“I can’t very well leave you back at the cottage, now can I?” Sherlock snapped. “Not when we’re expecting a serial killer. So now I’m carting you around like an oversized piece of luggage.”

“You _asked_ me on this case with you, Sherlock,” John hissed. “You practically _forced_ me. You ask me on all your bloody cases, so I have no idea—”

“You’re a _charity,_ ” Sherlock said. His hands squeezed at the wheel so tightly John could hear the vinyl squeak. “A sad mongrel who followed me home and has nowhere else to go. I allow you around, following me like some brain-damaged puppy, as an act of kindness. But I certainly don’t _need_ you.”

The anger in John’s stomach had formed into a ball of lead, heavy and burning. “I don’t exactly need you either, Sherlock,” he said, his voice nearly steady. “I thought we liked having the other around. Forgive me, but I assumed these years of friendship might have meant something. Suppose I was wrong about that.”

“You’re always wrong,” Sherlock muttered. “You’d think you’d be used to being wrong by now.”

“Well,” John said. “I’d hate to sully your genius with my idiocy. I suppose I’ll stop helping on cases, then.” The words tasted bitter. John could have been sick all over them.

“Please do,” Sherlock said. “You’ll save us all a lot of time and trouble.”

John turned, staring out the window to blink away his angry tears in peace. “Whatever you want,” he said, his voice a bit more gravelly than he would like. “It’s always whatever you want, Sherlock.” When he swallowed, it felt like knives were in his throat.

He could sense Sherlock looking towards him. He absolutely would not meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“It is _never_ ,” Sherlock said, his voice quiet yet insistent, “what _I_ want. Not with you.”

They passed the rest of the drive into town in silence.

John had managed to smooth out the knives in his throat and his angry tears were mostly gone by the time Sherlock parked the car on the side of the street, but the ball of lead in his gut seemed to have taken up long-term residence. He wasn’t particularly sure how he was meant to spend the day with this man, this man who so clearly didn’t want him around anymore. Each glance at Sherlock’s face was a new pain, so John endeavored to look at him as little as possible. He very much wished that they could skip to the part of the day where a serial killer chopped them up. That sounded much more pleasant in comparison.

As soon as they stepped out of the car, Sherlock’s expression softened back into his shamming-boyfriend face. He held out his hand for John.

John stared at Sherlock. “Are you kidding me?”

Sherlock blinked, apparently never once considering that John might not be in the mood to pretend to be his boyfriend at the moment. “We must stick to the plan, John,” he said.

“What for?” John asked. “Do you think the killer has cameras across the town? He’s supposed to be back at our flat, right? Breaking locks so he can murder us later?”

Sherlock glanced around him. The street was fairly empty, but he still looked concerned. “If you could take care to lower your voice ever so slightly when discussing our plan to catch a serial killer…”

“Why?” John spat. “Is he right behind us? We’ve absolutely no reason to pretend to be some sort of couple if the killer isn’t around.”

“We still don’t know who this individual _is_ ,” Sherlock said, “or if he has any accomplices. We must keep up the act at all times,” he swallowed, a moment of discomfort flicking across his face, “even if we don’t want to.”

“Fine,” John said, turning and walking down the street. “I’ll be your bloody boyfriend. But I’m not holding your fucking hand.”

Sherlock followed, walking just a step behind him. “Holding hands is a useful heuristic for onlookers to determine that we are in a relationship,” he said, but his voice was quiet.

“I don’t care,” John said.

Sherlock fell into step beside John, walking silently by his side. Against all his better judgment, John stole a glance at Sherlock. He still had his shamming-face on, appearing to all the world that he was in a pleasant mood, happy to be out with his boyfriend. However, John could see that Sherlock was unsettled, the facade crumbling along the edges. John heaved a sigh.

“For fuck’s sake,” he grumbled, grabbing at Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock said nothing. He held John’s hand delicately, carefully—as if no longer certain he was allowed. John squeezed at Sherlock’s hand. _It’s fine,_ he tried to communicate with his fingers, although it certainly wasn’t.

They moved slowly through Market Square, walking through shops they already entered two days ago and gazing in storefronts without actually seeing anything. They didn’t have much to say to each other. The silence was painful, and John was aware of every last second of it.

In one particularly busy shop, Sherlock stood behind John and draped his arms around John, resting his nose against John’s hair. He stood there for a moment longer than John thought strictly necessary. His body was warm against John’s and John could feel each of Sherlock’s exhales against his head. Something about Sherlock’s breathing seemed a bit off, although John noticed that he was having trouble breathing evenly himself.

“This is hard,” John said quietly.

“I know,” Sherlock said. John couldn’t quite read his tone. The two stood there for just a second longer before Sherlock released him, and they continued walking.

Sherlock had them stop in a pub for an early dinner. “Best eat now,” he said. “We might be rather busy later tonight.”

The ball of lead was still taking up too much space in John’s stomach for him to eat properly and Sherlock never seemed to eat, but the two ordered plates as a pretense and poked at their food. John ordered a beer, which slowly warmed next to him as his food turned cold. Sherlock sorted his food into little piles again. The whole of it was awful.

“I suppose I should move out,” John said, staring down onto his uneaten plate. “When we get back to London. Move straight in with Gilly.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, also seemingly incapable of eye contact at the moment. “I suppose you should.”

“No point in me sticking around the flat,” John said.

“No,” Sherlock said. “There isn’t.”

“Right then,” John said. He glanced up at Sherlock, looking for any tell, any possible sign that Sherlock was bluffing, that he didn’t actually want John to move out, leave Baker Street, leave him. Sherlock caught his eye and, for a moment, John thought he saw it. Sherlock’s lips twitched into a frown and his eyes were tinged with sadness and John was just about to say that he didn’t mean any of it, that he was just being a petty arsehole and he wanted to stay at Baker Street with Sherlock so badly it hurt, when Sherlock’s gaze darted just behind him and a fake smile slipped across his face.

“Brace yourself,” Sherlock muttered through his teeth.

“For…?” John started, but then he heard a man call their names. Hugh. Bloody _hell._

Sherlock nodded in greeting and Hugh sidled up next to their table, grinning madly. With him was a woman who looked rather like him, just shorter and with a bit more hair. She was grinning madly as well.

“This is my sister, Birdy,” Hugh said. “She helps me with the rentals sometimes.”

“Nice to meet you,” Birdy said, shaking at the both of their hands. “You’re the two blokes staying out at that old cottage, right? The one with the red doors?”

“That’s the one,” John said. He couldn’t find it in him to grin nearly as widely as Hugh and Birdy were grinning, and from the looks of it Sherlock couldn’t either.

“Isn’t that just a lovely old cottage?” Birdy asked. “I’ve been out to clean it a few times and I just _love_ it. So picturesque.”

“Picturesque,” John repeated. He didn’t have a lot of other words at the moment. Pretending to be Sherlock’s boyfriend—hell, pretending that he and Sherlock weren’t in a strop that seemed to be in the process of breaking John’s heart—was exhausting enough without an audience.

“Mind if we join you?” Birdy asked. She was already pulling out a chair. “Hugh already told me a bit about you—I’d love to get to know the two of you more.”

“Help yourself,” John said, but only because Birdy was already seated at this point. Hugh pulled up a chair for himself as well. Apparently John and Sherlock were to have some company. John glanced at Sherlock. His warm, fake smile seemed to be frozen on his face.

“So,” Birdy said, crossing her legs and settling in. “Hugh told me you two are from London. What do you do there?”

“Well, I’m a doctor,” John said. “And Sherlock…”

“...is in consulting,” Sherlock finished. John smiled to himself. Sherlock had used _consulting_ as a mostly-fake career when playing his little characters in the past. _Nobody knows what consultants do,_ Sherlock once explained, _and they’re too afraid to ask._

“That’s nice,” Birdy said, and didn’t ask any further questions on the subject. John tried to lift an eyebrow for a shared joke with Sherlock— _she was too afraid to ask, it seems_ —but Sherlock wasn’t looking.

“So,” Birdy continued. “How did you two meet?”

“Ah,” John said. Despite all the time he had to do so, he still had not given any thought to what their fake backstory would be.

“Introduced by a mutual acquaintance,” Sherlock said. “We were both looking for a flatmate at the time. The acquaintance thought we’d work well together.” He glanced up at John, and John couldn’t tell if the look in his eyes was genuine or not. “He was right.”

“Yeah,” John said, feeling the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile. “He was.” Sherlock could have made up some story here, contrived some fallacious yet real-sounding scenario for how the two of them met—locked eyes at a pub, took the same tube to work each day, were matched up on an internet dating website—but instead he went with the truth. It was charming. John could feel the ball of lead in his stomach blessedly start to shrink.

“Wow,” Hugh said. “So you two lived together before you…” He waved his hands together in a complicated manner.

“Indeed,” said Sherlock.

“Was it difficult to make the switch?” Birdy asked. “Flatmates to boyfriends?”

“Not particularly,” Sherlock said. “Our interactions before the romantic side of our relationship progressed were all quite intimate in nature anyway. We very much behaved as a couple from the start. Sharing the flat, arranging finances, bickering, working together,” he swallowed, “caring for one another. Becoming romantically involved turned out to be the easiest thing in the world.”

John found himself staring at Sherlock. This was actually quite an accurate description of their relationship, right from the moment they moved into the Baker Street flat. They had always worked so well together, and John’s life was intertwined with Sherlock’s in a way it had never been with any significant other, past or current. It made him wonder if he were even physically capable of leaving Baker Street, leaving Sherlock, or if the very act might rip something out of him.

“When did you know?” Birdy grinned. “That he was the one for you?”

John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock beat him to it. “Right from the start,” he said. “From the moment he was introduced to me, I knew. I took one look at him and it was like I knew him. Knew everything about him.”

“You _did_ know everything about me,” John said, chuckling. Sherlock’s eyes were glued to the table.

“It was terrifying,” Sherlock said. His voice was quiet. He glanced up at Birdy, carefully avoiding John’s gaze. “I’d been in relationships before. Not many. I never did well in them. They always ended poorly. I thought I understood. About relationships, that is. I thought I’d felt what I was meant to feel.” His gaze dropped back to the table. “I was wrong. I met John and I knew I’d been wrong. I knew what I was meant to feel, what I’d never felt before.” Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “I don’t like being wrong.”

“Sherlock…” John said. _You never told me that,_ he almost said, stopping himself just in time. Sherlock was acting, he reminded himself. Sherlock was a good actor; that’s why it sounded so real. Still, he reached across the table, grabbing at Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock looked at their joined hands but still did not meet John’s gaze.

“And what about you?” Birdy asked John. “When did you know?”

John could have made something up. He could have invented any one of thousands of clichéd moments of how two people decide they fancy each other. It would have been simpler in more ways than one. He didn’t. “As soon as he opened his mouth,” John said.

Sherlock’s eyes darted up to meet John’s. His eyebrows raised.

“Every time this man opened his mouth,” John said, “the most brilliant, incredible, extraordinary things came out. Not necessarily nice things, but extraordinary. He prattled on like some genius arsehole and all I could think was that he was the most remarkable man I’d ever met.” John smiled at Sherlock, squeezing at his hand. “And that’s all it took. He had me.”

Sherlock smiled at John and it was real, a genuine _Sherlock_ smile that crinkled at his eyes and looked ever so slightly stunned, as if he was not expecting any of the words that came from John’s mouth. It coaxed a smile from John in return, the widest smile he’d found on his face all day. For a moment, they were lost.

Hugh cleared his throat. He nudged Birdy. “We’d best be going,” he said. “Let these two gents finish their meal.”

Birdy stood, her chair clattering along the floor. “Lovely to meet the both of you,” she said with a wave.

“Yeah,” John said, finding himself a bit reluctant to look away from Sherlock at the moment.

“You two lads be sure to make use of that fireplace,” Hugh said, winking at them as he and Birdy walked off. John felt himself flush again.

John was afraid that Sherlock would pull his hand away as soon as Hugh and Birdy disappeared, but he didn’t. He ran his thumb over John’s knuckles, his gaze dropping from John’s once more. Neither of them spoke, and John found himself rather unsure of what to say at the moment.

John cleared his throat. “I don’t know if any of that was real,” he said, hoping desperately that he would never know, lest the truth wreck him. “But what you said...it was nice.”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes still nowhere near John’s. “What you said was nice as well. If it was real.” He considered. “Even if it wasn’t, it was still nice.”

_Of course it was real,_ John thought. He took a deep breath. “Sherlock…”

“We’d best head back to the cottage,” Sherlock said quickly, seemingly unwilling to hear what John had to say next. “We’ve likely given our murderer plenty of time to dismantle all the locks.”

“Right,” John said. “Right. Okay.”

Neither one of them had eaten very much of their meals, and at this point neither one of them would. Sherlock settled their bill and John took a cursory swig of his pint, not wanting to leave the thing completely untouched. As they moved towards the door of the pub, John reached out his hand for Sherlock’s, an offer.

Sherlock took it.

The sun had set while they were in the pub, and the town settled into darkness. Stars glittered in the night sky, and the lights from the shops shone in yellows and reds, casting a glow on the pavement. Sherlock’s skin looked nearly golden, dotted with little rainbow specks from the lights. His eyes were dark and his hair was wild and he looked the nearest thing to happy he had all day and John knew that this was as close as the two of them would ever get. John wasn’t meant to have Sherlock, no matter how he wanted him; this little sham of theirs would be all he would ever have of the man and it was ending soon. Their partnership was ending soon as well, for all he knew, and John felt it best to savor the moment.

Sherlock started walking down the pavement in the direction of their car, but John stayed where he was, holding tight to Sherlock’s hand until Sherlock stopped moving. Sherlock turned to face him, an eyebrow lifted.

“You said we should do public displays, right?” John asked. “Do things that couples do out where the killer could see? Make it obvious we’re together?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, but his eyes were narrowed. He seemed confused. “Although I believe that overall we’ve done a halfway decent job at—”

“Hush,” John said, stepping closer to Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes widened at his approach, glistening in the lights. He was beautiful, John thought, and it was utterly unfair that this was to be the only time for them.

“John,” Sherlock whispered.

“Hush,” John said again, and he wrapped a hand around the nape of Sherlock’s neck and pulled their mouths together.

He felt Sherlock momentarily stiffen beneath him, a small surprised noise escaping against John’s lips. Then Sherlock’s mouth moved against his—just a little, just enough—and the two were kissing. It wasn’t staged this time, an obscured kiss meant to look passionate but nothing but a sham, it was real—lips moving against lips, mouths opening ever so slightly. John caught Sherlock’s face in his hands and Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, his hands light on John’s shoulder blades. John kept the kiss chaste—they _were_ in public, and they _were_ meant to be pretending, after all—but only barely, catching Sherlock’s upper lip between his, sucking gently at him, leaving just a trace of moisture along that gorgeous mouth.

When they separated, John gazed up at Sherlock, unable to keep the smile off his face. He hoped that Sherlock would just think him to be acting, playing the part of the doting boyfriend instead of the truth—that he was far too awful of an actor to possibly fake how gone he was at the moment, how wonderful it felt to have Sherlock’s lips on his. Sherlock blinked down at John and John took an ounce of solace in the fact that Sherlock seemed just a touch too surprised to be fully faking his own smile.

“You…” Sherlock swallowed, chasing down his composure. “You didn’t have to…”

“I know,” John said. _But I wanted to,_ he thought. _Christ, how I wanted to._ He could have said it, he knew. He could have said a lot of things. Or even better, he could have taken Sherlock’s face in his hands again and kissed him once more, pushed him back against the glass of the storefront just behind them and snogged him until they were arrested for public indecency.

Instead, he took Sherlock’s hand and tugged him towards the car. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s go be murdered.”


	7. Chapter 7

The locks in the upstairs windows were broken when they arrived home.

“This is wonderful news,” Sherlock said, sweeping John into his arms and pulling him close, a play at a tender moment. “The killer is certain to come for us tonight.”

“Bit of a different definition of _wonderful news_ ,” John said, but when he laughed it was genuine.

The two of them did a nonchalant sweep of the cottage, pretending to be putting their jackets away, walking casually into the bedroom and the loo, searching for extra blankets in the closets instead of searching for an intruder. So far as they could tell, the killer was not yet in the house, although it was clear he had plans to be.

“So,” John said. “We wait?”

“We wait,” Sherlock repeated.

Sherlock insisted that it was imperative that the killer have no clue they were onto him. Thus, they needed to act as normal as possible. They were two lovers just returned from a romantic day in town. Best to act as such.

“How would you feel about a fire?” Sherlock asked.

Wherever he was, John had a feeling that Hugh would be overjoyed. John tossed some logs into the fireplace while Sherlock settled onto the sofa and tapped away at his mobile.

“Lestrade put me in touch with the local police,” Sherlock said. “I doubt they are any sharper than the wastes of public resources at Scotland Yard, but it might be nice to have a little backup in the instance of a vengeful serial killer. I’ve let them know of our plans for this evening.”

John lit a match, catching the edges of some of the smaller branches on fire. “That’s comforting, at least,” he said. Sherlock’s reliance on the police was spotty at best, so it was good to know that the two would not be faced with taking down a serial killer entirely on their own.

“They disagree wholeheartedly with my methods,” Sherlock said.

John blew at the tiny flames. “Your methods can be disagreeable.”

“Fortunately,” Sherlock said, tapping off a final message on his mobile and pocketing the device, “Lestrade explained to them that it is best to simply listen to me.”

The flames caught on the larger logs and the fire crackled. John sat back, admiring his handiwork. “I wonder if admitting to that caused him internal bleeding,” he said.

“I only wish I had the conversation recorded,” Sherlock said. “The evidence would be of great use to me in the future.”

When John turned towards Sherlock, he was surprised to see that Sherlock had opened the bottle of wine Hugh brought them. Two empty glasses sat near the bottle. John raised an eyebrow at the scene.

Sherlock shrugged. “Seems like the sort of thing boyfriends would do while sitting by the fire.”

John joined him on the sofa, careful to leave a bit of space between them. They were meant to be boyfriends at the moment, but John was a bit concerned over what he might genuinely do to Sherlock if he had him by a fire. “I suppose so,” he said. He filled the glasses and handed one to Sherlock. “Cheers.”

Sherlock tipped his glass towards John in a silent cheers before taking a sip. The fire popped beside them. The room filled with a flickering orange glow that made the shadows dance and loom long across the floor and walls. John sipped at his wine and did his absolute best not to marvel at how the light played against Sherlock’s face, turning his skin bronze and carving shadows into his already-sharp features. John was afraid he might not survive this night, full stop—regardless of the presence of a serial killer.

“I’ve been an arse to you,” Sherlock said.

John nearly choked on his wine. “What?”

“I apologize,” Sherlock said. “I’ve treated you miserably, and I don’t…” he stared into his glass, “I didn’t mean it. Those things I said.”

“Sherlock…”

“I value your assistance greatly,” Sherlock said, his voice quiet. “I value _you_. I was just…” He shook his head, abandoning that sentence. “I apologize.”

“It’s fine,” John said. “You don’t have to apologize. Not really. I’ve been…” John wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence. He had been a lot of things—confused, pining, love-struck. Engaged to somebody who wasn’t Sherlock.

“I can’t say I won’t carry on being an arse,” Sherlock said, mostly into his own wine glass. “But I’ll try.”

“I don’t mind it so much when you’re an arse,” John said. “Being mates, helping you, working with you, it’s…” _my greatest joy,_ John nearly said.

“Are you happy, John?” Sherlock asked. “With...Gilly?”

John blinked.

“Does she make you happy?” Sherlock asked.

“I…” There should be a very clear answer to this question, John knew. The answer should be yes. A resounding yes. That’s the way that people feel about their girlfriends, their _fiancés,_ isn’t it? However, John realized that he hadn’t heard from Gilly—no calls, no texts—in quite some time today and he hadn’t even noticed it until just this moment. He also realized that what he felt just now with Sherlock, even though they were pretending to be something they weren’t as they waited to get murdered, was much, _much_ happier than what he felt through the whole of his relationship with Gilly.

Sherlock shook his head. “I suppose it doesn’t matter,” he said.

“It matters,” John said, because it _did_ matter. These things he just realized, they mattered quite a bit. His head was spinning with it.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said. “But it doesn’t exactly change anything, now does it?” He met John’s eye and his expression faltered—he looked sad, looked something close to the _heartbroken_ label Mrs. Hudson hurled at John. John had no idea what to do with any of it, so he did nothing and the two sat in silence, slowly sipping wine as the fire crackled.

“This is unconvincing,” Sherlock said after some time. “We look as if we are anxiously sitting around, waiting to be murdered.”

“Well,” John said. “That—more or less—is exactly what we’re doing.”

“It won’t do,” Sherlock said. “It’s too suspicious.” He set his wine glass on the coffee table and moved forward, crawling towards John’s body. He knelt in front of John, cupping John’s face in his hands. “Pretend I’m kissing you,” he said, leaning in. “It won’t be for long.”

“I—” But John didn’t have time to say much else before Sherlock’s mouth was upon him. His lips landed just to the left of John’s, just grazing the curve of his frown, with Sherlock’s hand covering up the fact that they weren’t kissing, not really. John felt Sherlock’s mouth move against the periphery of his, feigning a kiss that was growing in passion with each moment. John did his best to act as if he were kissing back, sliding his eyes shut and working his jaw along with Sherlock’s, but the presence of Sherlock’s lips so close to his was too great a temptation for him to fully relinquish control.

“Watch your head,” Sherlock whispered against him.

“What?” John asked, and then he found himself pushed backwards onto the couch with a not-so gentle hand.

“Shit,” John said, placing his near-toppled wine glass on the table next to Sherlock’s as Sherlock settled to the side of him. Sherlock wedged his body between John’s and the back of the sofa until he lay at John’s side along the narrow surface, his chest pressed against John’s ribs, his leg tucked just slightly over John’s thigh. John felt a sudden heat settle over him.

Sherlock’s lips landed on John’s cheek in another not-quite kiss. “Don’t worry,” Sherlock said. “I won’t do anything indecent. We just need to look properly distracted. Allow the killer to think he has the element of surprise.”

John’s arms had come around Sherlock involuntarily, and Sherlock’s sudden proximity was certainly working to make John properly distracted. Sherlock nudged his nose along John’s cheek and down his jaw, acting as if he were planting kisses along John’s skin.

“Listen for any sounds of disturbance,” Sherlock said. His face was against John’s neck, pulsing as if giving John a hellish love bite. John’s fingers dug into Sherlock’s back, acting of their own accord. Sherlock wasn’t kissing him by any stretch of the imagination, but John could still feel Sherlock’s lips against his neck, his breath humid on John’s skin. Sherlock’s head was undulating, his jaw moving slightly, and the mere thought of Sherlock kissing and sucking and biting at John’s neck was driving him mad.

“It will be quiet,” Sherlock said, “what you’re listening for. Remember, he’s broken the locks on the windows. He’ll sneak in silently. Be on alert.” Sherlock’s lips moved with his words, brushing gently against John.

“I’m listening,” John said, but he wasn’t. All he could hear was the blood thundering in his ears and his own brain screaming at him to tilt his head to the side, to catch Sherlock’s mouth on his.

Sherlock’s hand was moving along John’s body, down his arm, onto his chest, along his side. “Don’t worry,” Sherlock said. “I won’t touch you below the beltline.”

John made some sort of moaning noise in response and nearly told Sherlock that he could touch wherever he wanted. _Please_ touch wherever he wanted. John ran his hands along Sherlock’s back, feeling each bump of his vertebrae. It took all of his self-control not to dip his hands lower, to grab at Sherlock’s arse. He had long since grown hard, his cock straining in his trousers. He wriggled slightly, trying to keep his back flat on the sofa, his groin away from Sherlock. Surely _two_ erections in one day might cause Sherlock to ask a few well-deserved questions.

“Keep your eyes open,” Sherlock said. “Just in case.”

Keeping his eyes open was near impossible with the way Sherlock’s breath tickled at his skin. Sherlock’s lips had moved up to John’s ear, and each of his whispers was making John shudder. Sherlock’s hand paused just at John’s hip, resting along the tip of his trousers. John was concerned that if Sherlock moved his hand any lower he would make a rude discovery. John very much wanted Sherlock to move his hand lower.

“When we hear him,” Sherlock whispered, “you are to call the police immediately.”

John nodded, and Sherlock’s hand slipped behind him. Turning him. Pulling him closer. John went to make a sound of protest, to push Sherlock away, to keep distance between their bodies. Before he could do any of that, they were pressed together, John’s erection pushing against Sherlock’s hip. John could feel his face flush red even as his cock throbbed with the sensation, and an apology was already forming in his mouth before he froze. His eyes popped open, gasping.

Sherlock was hard. Just as hard as John was.

Sherlock pulled back slightly, lifting his head away from John’s neck. He stared at John with wide, blinking eyes. His lips were parted, and he seemed just as breathless as John was at the moment. Whatever Sherlock was feeling, it seemed to be genuinely reflected on his face. His cheeks were tinged pink. His breaths were ragged. His eyes were dark and dilated and wanting. His lips were full and red and open and the only thought in John’s brain at the moment was _kiss me. Kiss me, Sherlock. God—kiss me._ John needed Sherlock to kiss him, a real kiss. He needed to feel Sherlock’s lips on his, Sherlock’s tongue in his mouth. John needed to taste him, every bit of him.

Sherlock shifted, making a move to push himself away, to gain distance from John. John caught his hip, holding him in place. He watched Sherlock’s eyes flicker with confusion, asking a question his mouth couldn’t voice. John swallowed. He rolled his hips against Sherlock’s gently, slightly, just enough to slide their bodies together. Sherlock’s eyes dropped closed. He moaned, a small, involuntary noise.

_God_ yes.

John rolled his hips again, a bit harder this time. He felt his cock slide along Sherlock’s groin, nudging against Sherlock’s erection through their trousers. Sherlock’s head fell to John’s neck again and John could feel him gasp. John’s heart was thundering in his chest, expecting at any moment for Sherlock to push him away, to tell him he misinterpreted the situation. John would stop then, but at the moment stopping was the absolute last thing he wanted to do. He set a slow, grinding pace against Sherlock, reveling in each hitch he drew from Sherlock’s breath.

Sherlock shifted, making a small noise, and John was sure that Sherlock was about to put an end to all of it. Instead, Sherlock hooked a leg over John’s hip and rocked against John. Sherlock’s arm was around John, sliding down his back, his fingers scratching, grasping. John made a sound that might have been a whimper and the two started moving against each other, grinding slow but hard.

This was wrong. This was certainly wrong, John knew, and well past whatever faux-boyfriend behaviors were necessary for the case. He was certainly cheating. He ought to be thinking of Gilly—his fiancé—and how he told her just a single day ago that she could trust him. He ought to pull away, to put a stop to all of this, to tell Sherlock that he hadn’t meant to cross this line. However, John found himself physically incapable of doing any of that because, at the moment, having Sherlock pressed against him and moaning was all he wanted. It was all he had wanted for quite some time, John realized, and he was not about to let Sherlock go one second sooner than he had to.

Sherlock’s mouth was against John’s neck. He wasn’t kissing him, not exactly, but John could feel him there. He could feel the scratch of stubble on Sherlock’s chin scrape against him, could feel the soft of Sherlock’s lips on his skin, could feel the heat of each of Sherlock’s breaths. John was choking back noises, little moans and whimpers and sighs. He could feel Sherlock’s chest heave against him. They were moving faster now, shuddering, uneven strokes against each other. John was so hard he thought he might burst through his trousers, and Sherlock felt the same, the bulge of his cock rigid against John’s. John’s brain was sparking and stuttering and _needing_ —needing to come, needing Sherlock, needing everything.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, his voice foreign, and Sherlock pulled back slightly, staring at John with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. Sherlock looked wrecked—flushed and sweating and wanting—and John nearly came in his trousers at the very sight of him. This was real. This had to be real.

“Kiss me,” John said.

“John,” Sherlock whispered. His hands were on John’s back, creeping lower. His leg was wrapped around John. His hips were still moving in tight strokes.

John shook his head. “Kiss me,” he repeated. Whatever Sherlock had to say, it could wait. He nudged his face closer to Sherlock’s. Their noses brushed together. “Kiss me.”

Sherlock’s eyes were on John, scanning his face, scrutinizing, trying like hell to make deductions but—for once—failing.

“Kiss me,” John said, and his lips brushed against Sherlock’s, those full lips plump on his. He felt Sherlock gasp against him and watched his eyes slide shut and his head tilt and—

A crash. Just outside.

Sherlock was a flurry of movement, leaping off of John so quickly John nearly tumbled off the sofa. Sherlock crouched on the floor, scanning the room, creeping towards the window that seemed to be nearest where the noise originated. The Holiday Killer was here. It was time to act.

John cursed. His cock throbbed. This was a _very_ inconvenient time for a serial killer to arrive.

Sherlock fished his mobile from his pocket and tossed it at John. “First message on my mobile,” he said. “Call that number. Tell them to get over here. Quickly.”

John did as instructed, sliding off the sofa and crawling over to Sherlock, who had sidled up to a window and was peeking out of the corner of the curtains.

“Mr. Holmes?” the voice on the other end of the mobile asked. “Are you in danger?”

“It would appear so,” John whispered.

“We’re on our way,” the voice said. “Get to a safe place.”

“Yeah,” John said. “You must not have worked with us before.” He hung up. “On their way,” he whispered to Sherlock. “What’s the plan?”

“First,” Sherlock slid aside a corner of the curtain with a finger, “we find him. Then we catch him.” He nodded in the direction of the coat-rack by the door, where his Belstaff hung. “In my coat pocket you’ll find your gun.”

“Did you have my gun with you all day?” John hissed.

“Not the time for that conversation,” Sherlock said. “Go. And stay low. The killer mostly works with knives, but we don’t know what other weapons he has on his person.”

John started a low crawl over to the coat-rack, scanning the remainder of the cottage as he went. From what he could see, the sitting room and kitchen were undisturbed. It didn’t look as if any windows were open or broken. It certainly sounded as if the noise came from outside, but John wondered if they ought to check the upstairs rooms as well.

“If you could hurry...” Sherlock whispered.

“Working on it,” John muttered. He reached the coat-rack and propped himself on his knees, fishing his gun out of Sherlock’s Belstaff. Sherlock, indeed, seemed to have walked around town today with a loaded gun in his pocket. John decided that the two would have a conversation about that at a later date. He positioned the gun in his hands and propped it close to his person, pointing it, for the moment, at the ceiling.

Sherlock motioned to him. “I think I hear something.”

John crept back over to Sherlock, taking care to point the gun away from him. He crouched at the other side of the window, listening.

Indeed, there was a faint rustling noise outside. Too loud to be the wind, too heavy to be an animal. No, it clearly sounded as if someone were in the bushes by the window.

“Shit,” John said.

“Give me your gun,” Sherlock whispered, beckoning with his hand.

“Why?” John asked, already worried that he knew the answer.

“I wish to say hello to our new friend,” Sherlock said. “And I hear that guns make terrific icebreakers. You stay here, and—”

John shook his head. “Absolutely not,” he whispered. “If you insist on charging headfirst at a serial killer, I am coming with you.”

“You realize,” Sherlock said, “that you now have a fiancé to consider.”

John, not even for a second, considered it. “I’m coming with you,” he said. “Full stop.”

Sherlock looked at him for one second, scrutinizing. Then he gave a tight nod. “To the front door,” he said. “It’s unlikely we’ll be able to exit the cottage without him noticing, so we’ll have to act quickly. Follow me. Keep an eye out for danger.”

John nodded, beginning to crawl towards the door. Sherlock’s hand darted out, catching John’s wrist.

“And be careful,” Sherlock said. His eyes looked earnest, concerned.

John bit at his cheek. He nodded again.

The two of them moved towards the door, as slowly and silently as possible. They stood, backs pressed to the wall just past the door. Sherlock’s hand was on the doorknob.

“I believe he is in the bushes just to the left of the door,” he whispered. “We move there first.”

John nodded, steadying his gun in his hands. He clicked the safety off.

Sherlock heaved the door open and was outside in a single step, hugging the outer walls of the house but moving quickly. He plunged towards the bushes, heading directly for the spot where the two last heard the movement. John cursed, following behind as closely as he could.

“ _Hello,_ ” Sherlock called out. “ _We’re so happy you could come to join us here today. If you could just show yourself, my colleague and I would love to have a little chat._ ”

Without warning, a figure burst from the bushes, tearing through the yard and towards the forest. Sherlock cursed and sprinted after the figure, gaining ground rapidly.

“ _Sherlock,”_ John called, taking off after Sherlock as fast as he could while still keeping the gun trained on the figure. John wasn’t sure he could get a good shot at this distance and while moving, and Sherlock was nearly upon the man now, practically obscuring John’s shot entirely.

Sherlock launched himself at the figure, tackling the man at his midsection. The two of them tumbled to the ground, rolling and grunting and scrabbling at each other. John heard a rough sound of skin on skin—someone landing a punch—and sprinted towards them.

“ _Let him go,_ ” John shouted at the figure. “ _I will gladly shoot you._ ”

Sherlock rolled on top of the figure, throwing a punch just solid enough to temporarily immobilize the man. He pinned the man’s arms to his sides just as John reached them, the gun pointed fiercely at the man’s head.

“ _Don’t shoot,_ ” the man cried. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I didn’t know you had a gun.”

John’s brow furrowed. In the darkness, he couldn’t see the man’s face very clearly, but the voice sounded familiar.

“Hugh?” Sherlock asked. He seemed equally confused.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Hugh cried. He sounded terrified, and likely had a right to be—John’s gun was still trained directly at his head. “I didn’t mean you blokes any harm, honest.”

“Hugh?” John asked. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Hugh wriggled a bit in Sherlock’s grip, but Sherlock held him firm. “I was just paying you lads a visit,” Hugh said. It was difficult to see, but his voice sounded like he was attempting a smile. It also sounded like he was not very successful in his attempt.

“At ten o’clock at night?” Sherlock asked. “That seems highly unlikely.”

“I just wanted to see if you two needed anything,” Hugh tried.

“By hiding in our bushes?” John’s gun remained trained on Hugh.

Hugh made a little whimpering noise. “I know what it looks like…” he said.

At the far end of the drive, John could see the beginnings of flickering blue lights. The police were on their way. Hugh’s head tipped back. He saw the lights too. Panic slapped across his face.

“We don’t need to get the police involved,” he said, his voice picking up speed. “We can work this out between the three of us. How about I waive the fees for your time at the cottage? Say this one is on the house?”

“For trying to kill us?” John asked. “Yeah. Not sure we can just let that one slide.”

Now that the lights were closer, Hugh’s face was more visible. His eyes widened. “Kill you?” he said. “No. No, I wasn’t trying to kill you. I…”

“You realize you don’t have a very strong defense,” Sherlock said. “Seeing as we caught you in our bushes. Outside of our cottage. At ten o’clock at night.”  
“And also seeing as you’ve broken the locks on the windows,” John said. “And rigged cameras in the rooms.”

Hugh’s eyes were even wider. His face was fully blue in the lights of the police cars and he seemed properly panicked. “Cameras?” he asked. “I swear to you, I didn’t…”

But the police were upon them then, swarming in and shouting directions and ushering Sherlock away from Hugh. John tucked his gun into his trousers as the officers closed in on Hugh, nudging Sherlock and John further away from the danger. They rolled Hugh onto his belly, hands behind his back, and Hugh allowed himself to be moved, too scared to put up any sort of fight.

“Honest,” he said as the officers secured him in handcuffs. “This has all been one big misunderstanding.”

The officers patted along Hugh’s body, searching for weapons. An officer pulled a pocketknife from his jacket. They reminded him that anything he said could be given in evidence and that he did not have to say anything. Hugh did not seem keen on accepting that advice.

“I didn’t mean any harm to either of you,” he said as the officers tugged him to his feet. “I certainly wasn’t trying to kill you.”

An officer slipped Hugh’s pocketknife into an evidence bag. Another officer grasped Hugh by his cuffed hands and started moving him towards the police cars, explaining to him that he was being arrested. Hugh did not seem to be listening.

“I call on some of the guests sometimes,” he shouted over his shoulder. “I don’t bother them. I promise. I can explain it all to you if you’ll just—” and then he was a bit too far away to be heard.

Sherlock had little pieces of grass and dirt along his shirt. He looked a bit rumpled after the scrap, but John was glad to see that he did not appear to be injured. Sherlock watched Hugh with narrowed eyes. He seemed to be thinking intently, deductions careening through his brain at a maddening pace.

A serious-looking officer approached them, wearing an overcoat draped over plain clothes. She extended a hand to Sherlock. “Detective Inspector Adams,” she said. “I believe we’ve been in touch.”

Sherlock ignored her hand so John shook it instead. “John Watson,” he said. He nodded to Sherlock. “And that one’s Sherlock.”

Adams smiled at the both of them. “Greg Lestrade told me a bit about the both of you,” she said. “He said your methods were unorthodox, but…” she glanced behind her, grinning at Hugh as he was loaded into the police car, “they work.” She shook her head in disbelief. “The Holiday Killer. Can’t believe we’ve got him.”

“It’s not him,” Sherlock said.

Adams’ brow furrowed. “What?” she asked.

“What?” John asked.

“It’s not Hugh,” Sherlock said. “He’s not the Holiday Killer.”

“What do you mean?” John asked. “He was lurking outside our cottage. In the bushes.”

“Highly suspect of him,” Sherlock said, “I agree.”

“And he tried to make a run for it when you confronted him,” John said.

“Not a well-thought-out move on his part,” Sherlock said. “But he still isn’t the killer.”

“What about the broken locks?” John asked. “The cameras?”

“The _what_?” Adams asked.

“The locks were certainly broken,” Sherlock said, “and the cameras were certainly placed, both by the Holiday Killer. But _that_ ,” Sherlock nodded towards the police car, slowly driving away with an unhappy-looking Hugh inside, “is not the Holiday Killer.”

Adams sighed. She gestured towards a few nearby officers. “We’ll do a sweep of the cottage,” she said. She walked off to bark orders at the officers.

“You’re sure Hugh isn’t the killer?” John asked. “He seemed awfully suspicious to me.”

“He was certainly suspicious,” Sherlock said. “But engaging in suspicious activity and being guilty of a crime are two separate things.”

The sweep of the cottage didn’t reveal any additional living bodies, although the police observed that someone certainly dismantled the locks and Detective Inspector Adams seemed more than a little bothered by the presence of the cameras. The cottage was secured with police tape and John and Sherlock were given instructions to head to the police station. They were driving away in the rental car just as more police cars were pulling in, full of forensics officers and crime scene photographers.

“Sure to bollocks up everything,” Sherlock muttered as the house grew smaller in the rearview mirror.

At the station, John and Sherlock gave their respective statements. Sherlock insisted upon Hugh’s innocence, but it was a hard sell. After all, Hugh had ready access to the house and had been by at least once when he thought Sherlock and John would not be there. As it turned out, Hugh’s property management company also had access to the listings of at least three other houses in which people were murdered. Not to mention, Hugh had a bit of a criminal record himself. Nothing major—nothing so serious as murder, that is—but he had a few instances of shoplifting as a youth and a couple of restraining orders out against him. John found the whole of the evidence to be a bit damning, as did the officers.

“We know Hugh,” one of the officers said. “Hugh takes an interest in a person and then takes it a little too far. Wouldn’t surprise me if he took it _way_ too far.”

“He’s not the Holiday Killer,” Sherlock said. “Hugh possesses neither the intellect nor sophistication to carry out serial murders.”

John considered that only Sherlock could make someone not being a serial killer sound like an insult.

While they were giving their statements, Detective Inspector Adams returned from the cottage. She had an officer collect Sherlock and John’s luggage, seeing as their cottage was now a crime scene and their holiday was officially over.

She shook their hands as she showed them to their car, thanking them for all their good work while Sherlock muttered something about incompetency and nobody ever listening to him.

“You two can head back home to London now,” Adams said, ignoring Sherlock’s poutings with a smile. “I bet you’re glad that this is all over.”

Sherlock and John glanced at each other. Neither of them seemed particularly glad.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock and John managed to make it back to Baker Street before the sun rose, but only barely.

Sherlock’s mood had been unpleasant for much of the drive back to London. He spent most of it in a crotchety silence, punctuated by periodic outbursts about the incompetence of the local police department.

“He had a _pocket knife_ on him, John,” Sherlock snapped more than once. “Was he planning to murder us with a pocket knife?”

“I’ve seen you take someone down with a shoe,” John replied. “Stranger things have happened.”

For John’s part, he spent the drive reeling, trying to make sense of the events of the night. Bits of adrenaline from apprehending a supposed-murderer still floated around in his system, and he tapped his fingers against his legs with an anxious energy until Sherlock told him if he didn’t stop Sherlock would toss him from the car. John wasn’t sure if Sherlock’s doubts about Hugh’s guilt had any merit—Hugh certainly seemed guilty, and he certainly had no reason to be outside their window at ten o’clock at night. However, Sherlock very annoyingly tended to be right about most things. If he was right about this as well, that meant that there was still a serial killer on the loose somewhere. John did not particularly care for that idea.

However, John found his thoughts most frequently returning to the time he and Sherlock spent together that evening—the information they shared with Hugh and Birdy at the pub, Sherlock’s little apology at the cottage, and after...oh god, after. John knew that Sherlock was an expert manipulator, and this week had given him a new appreciation for just how skilled Sherlock was at slipping seamlessly into his little characters for cases. Still, it seemed impossible that Sherlock was faking everything with John this week. Some of it had to be real, didn’t it? What happened on the sofa—Sherlock hard as a rock and grinding against him, Sherlock’s mouth closing in on his, Sherlock’s eyes, dark and wanting as they stared into John’s—that had to be real, right?

Then Sherlock would interrupt John’s thoughts with a string of well-articulated insults aimed at nobody in particular and John reminded himself that attempts to understand Sherlock’s inner processes were futile at best.

Once—just the once—John tried to broach the subject of the events of the evening.

“So,” John said, directing his words entirely towards the car window, “when we were… Um. On the sofa…”

“If I could,” Sherlock said, “I would very much like to remove you of any sense of obligation you feel to discuss it. Immediately.”

So that was that.

The flat was dark and cold when they returned. Mrs. Hudson had long since gone to bed, and everything was silent. Sherlock flipped on a single light and set to what appeared to be purposeless pacing. He seemed to have run out of things to say to John, and John also found himself at a loss for what to say to Sherlock at the moment.

John stood in the middle of the sitting room, fiddling at nothing with his fingers. He glanced up the stairs to his bedroom. He ought to go to bed, he knew. He ought to pick up his bag from where he dropped it by the door, climb the steps, and go to sleep. It was late. He ought to be tired. He should sleep. However, the thought of going up stairs to his bedroom and lying on his empty bed without Sherlock made John ache.

“I’m not very tired,” John said. “Are you?”

“I’m thinking,” Sherlock said, which was not exactly an answer to John’s question.

John shuffled a bit in the center of the room as Sherlock walked into the kitchen for no obvious reason whatsoever. “It feels a bit odd to be back,” John said, scratching at his head. “I’d sort of grown used to that cottage. It was nice, in a way. Minus the serial killer bit.”

“Spare me the platitudes, please,” Sherlock muttered. His pacing brought him back into the sitting room and he was currently walking around the perimeter, embarking upon a deep study of the walls.

“It’s not a platitude,” John said. “I just meant—”

“This is what you want, is it not?” Sherlock said, his voice tight. “To be back home? To be done with this little case where you are forced to pretend we mean something to each other?”

“Oh good,” John sighed. “You’re in a strop again.” John wondered if he ought to go to bed after all; one benefit to being back at Baker Street was that he could escape Sherlock’s moods when they became particularly tumultuous.

“I am merely pointing out the disingenuousness of your words,” Sherlock said. He was pacing over by the sofa now, taking care not to look directly at John. “If you are going to pepper me with banalities, you could at least do me the courtesy of being accurate. _Obviously_ you’re glad to be back, so you can pick up where you left with your little life, your little girlfriend—excuse me, _fiancé_ —desperate to prove a point to no one.”

“Christ,” John muttered, rubbing at his eyes. “I’d really hoped we were past this.”

“We _are_ past it,” Sherlock snapped. “You’re getting married. You’re moving out. Any attempts at pretending that you aren’t absolutely gagging to do so insults the both of our intelligences. And some of us care about our intelligences.” He’d made a full lap of the sitting room at this point, ready to dip back into the kitchen.

“Sherlock,” John said, far too tired for any of this. “Do you want me to stay?”

Sherlock said nothing. He continued his pacing into the kitchen.

John followed him, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. “Do you not want me to get married?”

“I don’t care what you do,” Sherlock said, although from John’s angle it looked as if he said it to the sink.

“Yeah,” John said. “That’s bullshit.”

“I never bullshit,” Sherlock said.

“Yes you do,” John said, stepping into the kitchen. “You’re doing it right now. You care. You have to care.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked, spinning to face John for the first time since the two returned to the flat. “Why do I _have_ to care?”

“Because I can’t believe that you don’t,” John said. He could hear a touch of desperation in his voice but there was little he could do about it. “I can’t believe that you don’t care what I do with my life when you’ve been in a strop with me all week about getting engaged, you act like a spoiled child when I have any sort of relationship, you complain to Mrs. Hudson about Gilly…” John watched Sherlock’s eyebrows raise. “Yeah, she called me the other morning, gave me a real piece of her mind about getting engaged. Said I was being cruel to you.” John shook his head. He stepped closer to Sherlock, who returned to looking at anything but John. “How? How—Sherlock—could it be cruel to you if you don’t care what I do?”

“Mrs. Hudson doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Sherlock muttered.

“Or,” John said, “Mrs. Hudson knows _exactly_ what she’s talking about and you’re too much of a bloody coward to tell me how you feel.”

“Since when does it matter to you what I feel?” Sherlock snapped. “Since when did you decide to take up the charity case of pretending to fret over my feelings? You’ve never seemed particularly keen on the endeavor before, so there is certainly no reason to start now.”

John blinked. “I always care how you feel, Sherlock,” John said.

Sherlock laughed, an angry sound, and stormed from the kitchen once more, resuming his pacing through the sitting room. “Not for one second have you ever given a whit what I feel.”

John followed close on Sherlock’s heels. “That’s not true—”

Sherlock whipped around, taking a step towards John and crowding into his space. “Tell me then,” Sherlock snapped. “If you _care_ so much, why are you constantly looking for a way out of this life with me?”

John narrowed his eyes. “I am not—”

“Why hide away with your unending supply of meaningless girlfriends, as if you would prefer to be anywhere other than this flat?”

“I don’t—”

“Why become engaged to a woman you clearly don’t love,” Sherlock said, “a woman you can barely stand, a woman who means so little to you that you haven’t even noticed that she hasn’t called you in a day and a half? Why are you so eager to leave? Is living here in this flat with me so terrible that you’ll snatch up the first opportunity to flee that comes along?”

“Sherlock—”

“If you _care_ so much,” Sherlock continued, stepping even closer, his voice on the border of yelling, “how is it you have never once considered how any of this affects me? Why did it take Mrs. Hudson to call your attention to it? And even then—even _then_ —you’ve done _nothing_. Either you genuinely couldn’t be bothered to attend to what you’re doing to me, or you are the most mind-numbingly stupid person on the planet, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it might be both.”

“What the hell do you _want_ from me, Sherlock?” John shouted. Sherlock was less than an arm’s reach away, so close John could feel the heat coming off his body. His face was red, his eyes shimmering.

“I want _you_ , you bloody idiot,” Sherlock screamed at him. “How can you possibly be so stupid? How can you not see that it’s _you_ that I want?”

John felt his mouth fall open. He shook his head, ever so slightly. Sherlock turned, preparing to storm away, but John caught his arm, holding him still. When Sherlock met his eyes, they were wide and hurt and near-overflowing, and John was well and done pretending that he didn’t want this too.

“Then take me,” he said.

Sherlock paused, stunned. He blinked. Once. Twice. And then he surged forward and his mouth was on John’s, forcing John’s lips apart and pushing his tongue inside and they were kissing, _finally_ kissing. Sherlock’s hands were in John’s hair and his body was pressed flush to John’s and he seemed keen to never let John escape his grasp. John moaned and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. His knees could have gone out from under him if he wasn’t careful. It was real, this was real. Sherlock’s body was warm and _there_ and his lips were moving against John’s and his tongue was dipping and exploring in John’s mouth and there were no cameras or onlookers or a bloody serial killer to convince. They were alone and they wanted each other.

“Jesus,” John whispered, barely able to breathe. “You feel amazing.”

Sherlock made a noise akin to a growl and pushed John backwards through the room, down the hallway, towards Sherlock’s bedroom. John allowed himself to be moved, stumbling through the flat gracelessly, clinging to Sherlock’s shoulders, never once letting go of his mouth. John’s elbow hit a wall and they nearly toppled a side-table. Neither one noticed.

Sherlock shoved John onto the bed with such force that John bounced with the impact, and then Sherlock was on top of him, laying him flat and grinding a thigh between John’s legs. John gasped and arched and writhed under Sherlock, pulling him closer. He wanted to touch Sherlock everywhere at once and was certainly trying, his hands roaming across Sherlock’s face, his shoulders, his back. He gripped Sherlock’s arse and ground their bodies together and Sherlock moaned against him and John decided that the accomplishment he would be proudest of until the day he died was making Sherlock moan like that. John rolled them to the side, hooking a leg over Sherlock’s waist and moving his lips across Sherlock’s jaw, his neck, his collarbone.

Sherlock tore at John’s clothes in pieces, ripping his jumper only partway off him, yanking at his belt until it was open and dangling in the loops, tugging at his flies with enough force to rip the fabric, trying to push his pants and trousers off him all at once. John still had his bloody shoes on and Sherlock had far too many clothes on altogether. John pushed at Sherlock’s jacket and fumbled with the buttons on his shirt and barely had the top half of Sherlock undressed when Sherlock’s hand wrapped around John’s cock and John forgot how to do anything except breathe, and he seemed to be doing a slapdash job of even that.

“I want to make you come,” Sherlock whispered against John’s mouth.

John nodded—the only means of communication he seemed capable of at the moment. Sherlock stroked his cock with a rhythm that had John shaking and John swore he saw spots. He pawed at Sherlock’s clothes, working open Sherlock’s flies with dumb fingers. John’s trousers were barely to his knees and his jumper dangled off one arm and he didn’t even bother to get Sherlock’s flies fully open before he worked Sherlock’s cock out of his pants. Sherlock was hard, the tip of his cock already leaking, and John ran his fingers down the length of him, reveling in the noises Sherlock made as he did so, the way Sherlock’s body nearly stuttered to a stop against him.

“Nightstand,” Sherlock muttered, and John barely had time to comprehend the words before Sherlock wrenched himself away, nearly tearing the drawer from his nightstand to retrieve a little bottle. Sherlock poured an excessive amount of lubricant into John’s hand, and John hadn’t even warmed it in his palm when Sherlock’s slick hand was back on him, tightening, squeezing, twisting. John made an undignified noise and grabbed at Sherlock’s cock, willing his limbs to have enough remaining functioning to make this man scream.

It was frantic and desperate and uncoordinated, their hands moving against each other with the barest of rhythms, knuckles knocking together, mouths finding each other’s for sloppy, gaping kisses. Sherlock seemed barely able to breathe and John had a steady stream of curses and non-words falling from his mouth. It would be over far too quickly, John knew. He could feel himself barreling towards orgasm and Sherlock seemed to be in a similar position, his face red and his eyes barely open and his cock swollen in John’s hand.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, because he could. He could say the name of this man in bed with him, the man whose mouth was on his, whose cock was in his hand. He could say the name because when he did it made the corners of Sherlock’s gasping mouth turn up into a little smile and his heavy eyes flash with something like love. He could say the name until he could no longer speak if he had to.

Sherlock rolled on top of John, propping himself on an elbow. He nudged John’s shaking palm away and took the both of their cocks into his hand, his long fingers wrapping around them in rough, tight strokes. All the sound fell from John’s mouth and he was left a shaking mess, soundless mouth open and barely gasping, barely breathing, only able to twitch and shake against Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock bit at John’s lips, his breaths ragged against John’s mouth. The both of them were burning, sweat beading on their foreheads and chests, hair dampening. John gripped at Sherlock with iron fingers. Sherlock’s head fell onto John’s chest, his forehead digging into John’s collarbone, the whole of him tight, shaking, teetering on the edge.

It was John who came first, shouting and thrashing and coming in pulsing spurts, slicking Sherlock’s hand further. John felt the world dip into static and was vaguely aware of Sherlock gasping his name. He tugged Sherlock’s mouth onto his and Sherlock had his eyes open, watching John with something akin to awe. Sherlock’s body went rigid and his mouth dropped open and he made the most glorious sound and then he was coming, stroking himself furiously, painting John’s chest in warm white streaks.

Sherlock held himself just above John for a moment longer, his cock still in his hand, panting and flushed as the last drops of come dribbled onto John’s stomach. Then he collapsed at John’s side, nose buried in John’s neck, a leg draped over John’s.

“Christ,” John breathed. He was still a gasping, dizzy mess, barely clinging to any semblance of coherence. He felt Sherlock nod against his neck. Sherlock’s chest was flattened over John’s arm and John could feel Sherlock’s heart hammering against him. John’s heart was doing a number in his chest as well; he could practically see it through his ribs.

This was real. All of this was real.

John looked down at his body, at Sherlock’s body. John’s trousers never made it past his knees. He still had a shoe on. His jumper was half-on his body, bunched around a shoulder. Sherlock’s clothes looked ripped open down the center, his shirt torn open but still on his shoulders, his trousers barely past his hips, his cock tugged rudely from his pants. Sherlock had traces of lubricant and semen around his flies and John, of course, had streaks of their come across his stomach and chest. John giggled, shaking his head.

“We’re a mess,” he said.

Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow. He stared down at John’s body, taking him in with a smile. He ran a finger through the mess on John’s chest. “I like you like this,” Sherlock said. “Messy.”

John grinned. He slipped his jumper off his arm and Sherlock rid himself of his shirt. Sherlock used John’s vest to clean the mess of John’s chest and John kicked his shoes off, slipping his trousers down his legs. Soon, the both of them were naked. John nestled closer to Sherlock and Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, warm skin pressed to skin.

“We’ve done this a bit backwards,” John said.

“In more ways than one,” Sherlock said. His nose was against John’s forehead, in his hair. John was sliding towards sleep, warm and content and happy, so goddamn happy in Sherlock’s arms. He could feel Sherlock relax, his muscles going limp, his breathing slipping low and steady. John was perfectly willing to remain in Sherlock’s arms for as long as he was able, however long that would be.

“Stay,” Sherlock said. His voice was sluggish with sleep.

And John stayed.


	9. Chapter 9

John woke to someone gently touching his shoulder.

John blinked and shifted his head, the world slowly coming into focus around him. For a disorienting moment, he had no idea where he was. The room was bright—the sun had long since risen—and all John knew was that he was not in his bed. The mattress was much more comfortable than his and the sheets were softer and there was that hand on his shoulder, rubbing softly.

John blinked again and Sherlock came into focus. Sherlock was seated on the mattress, a hand on John’s shoulder. Sherlock was already dressed for the day but John was naked under the blankets. Naked and relaxed and just a bit sticky and—

Oh.

Right.

John’s cock stirred at the sudden memory, and he was sure his face developed a flush. Part of his brain started a slow spin, worrying in a vague way if Sherlock regretted the events of the night prior, wished for John to leave his bed. However, Sherlock looked so lovely sitting above him, smiling in a tiny way he was clearly trying to hide and touching John’s shoulder with something like tenderness, that all John could do was grin up at him.

“Morning,” John said.

Sherlock’s smile flickered into something dear, something that might have been affection. He recovered. “I’ve got to go into the station,” he said. “I’ve been in communication with Lestrade, and I believe he can help sort out this Holiday Killer business.”

“Ah,” John said. That’s right—there had been a serial killer, hadn’t there? He shifted slightly, attempting to push himself up. “Need me to come with you?”

Sherlock kept his hand on John’s shoulder. “Stay,” he said. “I’ll text you if I need you.”

“Please do,” John said. He was aware he was still grinning at Sherlock, a dopey, lovestruck-teenager grin. It didn’t seem like it was leaving his face anytime soon.

Sherlock removed his hand from John’s shoulder but lingered on the bed a moment longer. He stared down into his lap, twiddling with his fingers. He opened his mouth, inhaled, looked as if he was about to say something. He closed his mouth again. He turned back to John, smiling. “I’ll be back soon,” he said. With that, he was gone, disappearing out the door and down the hallway in almost a single movement.

John sighed and rolled onto his back, the full weight of everything he felt sinking onto his chest. He could hear Sherlock’s quiet footsteps jog down the stairs and out the door, and he loved that he knew what Sherlock sounded like. He loved that he knew how Sherlock walked, how his coat fluttered when he spun around, how his eyes glistened as he took in new information at near light-speed. He loved that he now knew what Sherlock’s skin felt like, how Sherlock moved in his arms, what Sherlock sounded like when he came. He loved that he knew how Sherlock’s breathing changed when he slept, how his face went slack and his eyelashes fluttered, how his arms fit around John just so, keeping him close as if keen to never let him go.

He loved Sherlock, John realized. He loved every little thing about him, even the infuriating bits. It wasn’t his mind playing tricks on him or excessive neurochemicals due to physical touch or any degree of acting. He’d loved him since the beginning, and at the moment it seemed to be the most obvious thing in the world.

_This is it_ , John thought, _this is what is real_. He ran his hands over his face, shaking his head. He was naked and alone in Sherlock’s bed, the bed of the man he just realized he’d been in love with for years, grinning like some sort of lunatic. He laughed, partially at his own obliviousness, partially at the sheer insanity of the situation, but mostly because he was so goddamn happy he could barely stand it.

He considered jumping out of bed and trying to convene with Sherlock at the police station. He needed to see Sherlock again, needed to wrap his arms around him and kiss him and tell him that he loved him more than anything. He didn’t care if the whole of Scotland Yard watched.

Unfortunately, there was a thing or two that John knew he needed to do first, some matters he needed to square away. It would be difficult, he knew, but it was the right thing to do. It was only fair.

John eased himself out of bed, scanning the room for his clothes. He couldn’t find his pants for the life of him, and his vest was a soiled mess. He opted to simply tug his trousers on, flies undone, and carry his jumper with him to his bedroom. He would change in his bedroom and clean up a bit after he had made the phone call he knew was desperately needed.

He was still smiling when he left Sherlock’s bedroom with his clothes in hand, despite the unpleasantness of what was to come. He was nearly bloody humming to himself.

“ _John._ ”

John looked up, startled. There was Mrs. Hudson, standing in the sitting room with a dust-rag, apparently in the midst of her plan to tidy Sherlock’s messes when he wasn’t looking. She seemed frozen, staring at John’s bare chest with wide eyes.

John cursed, tugging his flies closed and pulling his jumper over his head so quickly his head nearly got lodged in a sleeve. “Mrs. Hudson,” he said through the thick fabric. “I… I didn’t know you’d…”

“John Watson,” Mrs. Hudson snapped. “How could you be so cruel?”

“I…” John managed to wedge his head through the correct bit of his jumper and blinked at Mrs. Hudson. Her lips were pursed and her face was stony and she looked like she might find a way to use her dust-rag as some sort of weapon against him. “What do you—”

“Haven’t you already done enough to that poor man?” Mrs. Hudson asked, flapping her rag in the direction of Sherlock’s open bedroom door, just behind John.

John glanced back into Sherlock’s bedroom. “I haven’t…”

“You’ve already broken his heart, I hope you know,” Mrs. Hudson continued, “when you got engaged to that _woman._ And now _this._ ” She pointed an accusing finger at John’s rumpled appearance. “I don’t know how he’ll possibly cope once you’re gone now. Now that you’ve given him hope.”

John became aware that he still held his soiled vest in his hand. He stuffed it into his back pocket, hoping Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t scrutinize the garment too closely. “No,” he said. “You’ve got it all—”

“This is completely unfair of you, John Watson,” Mrs. Hudson said. She looked as if she were near tears, but angry tears. John had a feeling it was best not to approach her too closely. “Taking advantage of Sherlock’s feelings like that.”

“Mrs. Hudson…” John started.

“I knew you were oblivious and slow,” Mrs. Hudson said. “But I didn’t think you’d be intentionally _awful_.”

“Mrs. Hudson…” John tried again. He took a step towards her, slow and careful. He held a palm out in front of him. _I mean you no harm._

“You’re treating him monstrously,” Mrs. Hudson said, her voice shrill and sharp. “Absolutely monstrously. And I hope you’re—”

“I love him,” John said. It was the first time he said it out loud, he realized, and the words made a smile break out across his face. He laughed, shook his head. “I love him,” he said again, simply because the words felt so wonderful to say.

Mrs. Hudson’s mouth fell open. Her eyes went wide. “You—”

“I love him,” John said again, his smile widening. “And. I’ve been an idiot, I know. I’ve been an idiot, but...I know now. I know how I feel about him.” The words were falling out of his mouth now, and John wondered vaguely if he might be blubbering. He didn’t care. “And, it’s him. For me. He’s the one I want. The only one. If he’ll have me.” He scratched at his head, a stab of nerves running through his gut. “God, I hope—”

“He’ll have you,” Mrs. Hudson said quickly. “I know he’ll have you.”

“Yeah?” John asked. His smile was nearly gaping, stretched across the whole of his face. “I hope you’re right. Cause I’m…” He narrowed his eyes at Mrs. Hudson. “You knew this whole time, didn’t you?”

Mrs. Hudson smiled, her lips pursed into a secretive little smirk. “Well,” she said, “it was rather obvious, now wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” John said. “Yeah, I guess it was.”

“So,” Mrs. Hudson said. “What are you going to do about…?” She gestured towards the window, her way of not having to say Gilly’s name. _That one._

“Well,” John said, “I’m going to break it off with her.”

Mrs. Hudson squealed, clapping her hands together. She nearly _bounced._

“Don’t look so...overjoyed,” John said, fighting back a smile. “God, you’re just as bad as he is sometimes.”

Mrs. Hudson did absolutely nothing to quell her unabashed happiness that John was about to break things off with his fiancé. “When are you going to do it?” she asked.

“Um,” John said, nodding in the direction of the stairs, his room. “Now, actually. I’m going to call her, see if we can meet up to talk. I figure it’s best to do this sort of thing face-to-face. That’s where I was heading—to call her—before…”

“Oh!” Mrs. Hudson cried. “Don’t let me stop you, then. On with it.” She advanced on John, tugging at his arm and pushing him towards the stairs.

“Worse than he is,” John laughed, managing to fight against Mrs. Hudson’s grip just long enough to pull his mobile from the pocket of his jacket, hanging by the doorway. “I’ve decided that you’re worse than he is.”

“Get _on_ with it,” Mrs. Hudson was nearly shoving him up the stairs. “Sooner the better for these sorts of things. Like ripping off a plaster.”

“Right,” John said, continuing up the stairs before Mrs. Hudson volunteered to call Gilly and break things off herself. Mrs. Hudson nearly skipped back down the stairs once she was satisfied that John was on his way to make the call. He could hear her singing little songs to herself.

Once upstairs, John shut his bedroom door firmly. He had no doubt that Mrs. Hudson would be listening in on his conversation, but he wanted to make it just a _little_ harder on her, now didn’t he? He sat down on his bed, heaving a sigh. The conversation he was to have with Gilly—whether in person or whether she forced it out of him over the phone—was certain to be long and thoroughly unpleasant. They’d had rows before that lasted longer than John thought reasonable, and those were only over small infractions. Gilly was likely to want to discuss his desire to break things off because he was in love with someone else for a _while._

John checked his mobile, half-afraid of what he might already find. He had barely spoken to Gilly at all the day prior, and hadn’t even sent her a text when he and Sherlock returned home to Baker Street. And then, of course, John had been otherwise occupied for the remainder of the night. He expected a flurry of texts and calls, turning from worried to infuriated, demanding answers for his silence.

However, John was surprised to see that he had no messages from Gilly. The only notifications he had were three texts from Sherlock, received just a few minutes ago. They must have come through while Mrs. Hudson was still yelling at him.

_Hugh is not the Holiday Killer. SH_

_Turns out, he was just a pervert who enjoys watching visitors shag. SH_

_Be back soon. Will explain more then. SH_

John smiled at the texts from Sherlock, even though he was not particularly sure if he was comforted by the idea of Hugh hiding in the bushes, hoping to catch a peek of the two of them shagging. It did, however, cast Hugh’s insistence that they try out the fireplace in a slightly different light.

Ah well, John thought. He could worry about all that later. Sherlock would be home soon, and he would like to get this phone call out of the way beforehand.

He dialed Gilly’s number. He raised his mobile to his ear.

The phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

Gilly had a bit of an annoying ringtone, something high and chirpy and maddeningly melodic. John had heard it countless times, and it made his teeth grind. As such, it didn’t take him particularly long to recognize the sound as it drifted through his bedroom.

He blinked. His brow furrowed.

The ringtone continued, mechanical and cheery.

John lowered his mobile from his ear and he could hear it clearer now. Gilly’s ringtone, drifting through his small bedroom. His room was relatively sparse, with few bits of furniture aside from the bed, a nightstand, and a dresser. As such, it did not take John particularly long to deduce that the noise was coming from his closet.

He hit _end_ on his mobile.

The ringtone stopped.

John stood slowly, turning to face the closet just as the door eased open.

Gilly stepped out. She was dressed in the kind of outfit she would wear to the gym except dark, clothing made for stealth and flexibility. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. She held her now-silent mobile to her ear, as if waiting to take the phone call. In her other hand, she held a gun.

“Hello poppet,” Gilly said.

John stared at her. He could hardly make sense of what he was seeing. “Gilly…” he said. “What are you…”

“You wanted to talk to me?” Gilly asked. She batted her eyelashes, a mockery of innocence. The gun was trained on John, unwavering. “We can talk now if you’d like. I’m free as a bird.”

“I…” John started. The gun was more than a little distracting.

“What was it that you wanted to talk to me about?” Gilly asked. She shifted her position in the room, moving slowly so that her body blocked the door.

John was performing mental calculations in his head. He might be able to get past her, but the way she held that gun made him think she would get a bullet in him fairly soon after. John’s own gun was still in his bag, sitting just by the door to the flat, completely ignored.

“Was it that you and Sherlock had sex last night?” Gilly asked. “Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

John swallowed. He squared his shoulders, looking her in the eye. “Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry, Gilly.”

“Were you also going to tell me,” Gilly asked, “about your little tryst at the cottage?”

John narrowed his eyes at her. “What?”

Gilly rolled her eyes. “On the sofa,” she said. “By the fire. The two of you were quite cozy, now weren’t you? Lord only knows what would have happened if Hugh hadn’t interrupted you.” She smirked. “I told you he was a bit of a creep.”

“How…” John blinked. “How did you...?”

“And then there were all those times in bed,” Gilly continued. “Wrapping yourselves up in each other in the dark of the night. Quite cozy indeed. That wasn’t a part of it, now was it? That wasn’t a part of being fake boyfriends. No, that was just for the two of you.”

“How do you know all this?” John asked, although he was beginning to develop a fair guess.

Gilly smiled. She shook her head at him, as if he was the silliest man in the world. “Oh poppet,” she said. “I’ve got eyes everywhere. Come now. You and Sherlock found them, didn’t you? My little eyes all over the cottage?”

“You…” John stammered. His head was spinning. “You put the cameras…”

“I did indeed,” Gilly said. “How else am I supposed to keep track of everyone? I’m not exactly going to peek through the curtains, am I? Hugh will tell you that practice has its disadvantages.”

“And the locks on the windows,” John said. “Did you…?”

Gilly shrugged. “The two of you were trying to find me,” she said. “I thought I’d pop in. Say hello. It’s quite rude not to at least make an appearance when you’re invited somewhere.”

John blinked. The floor rocked underneath him. “So you’re…” he said. “You’re…”

“I believe the papers call me the Holiday Killer,” Gilly said. “Dreadful name. Not sure I would have picked it for myself. But then, the papers so rarely ask serial killers for their preferred name. I suppose it could have been worse.”

“You…” John’s brain struggled to make sense of it all. “You were there, then? At the cottage. Last night. You were going to kill us?”

Gilly considered. “I hadn’t quite made up my mind if I was going to kill the two of you or not,” she said. “You hadn’t quite given me a reason yet, although you were certainly barreling towards one that last night. I thought that being engaged to me might put a stop to your little advances towards Sherlock, but it seems I was wrong. As such,” Gilly’s gaze turned icy, “thank you for giving me a reason. The decision is _much_ easier now. Now that I know what kind of man you are.”

John lifted his hands at his sides. _I’m unarmed don’t shoot_. “Gilly…”

Gilly smiled, a vicious thing. “And you said I could trust you,” she said. “Well. Good thing I’m so much less naive than I used to be.”

Distantly, John heard a noise. The click of a doorknob. A door opening. The rattle of the door knocker as a door was shut with gusto. John’s eyes widened, and it felt as if all the blood in his body dropped to his feet.

Sherlock.

Gilly’s eyebrows lifted. “Sounds like somebody is home,” she grinned.

John could hear Sherlock’s hurried footsteps, darting through the foyer and up the steps. There were seventeen steps between the door and the first floor of the flat, but Sherlock seemed to be taking them two at a time. John felt a stab of panic rush through him.

“Don’t,” he said to Gilly, his voice quiet and rather less steady than he’d like. “Don’t hurt him.”

Gilly smiled. “What would be the fun in that?”

Sherlock’s footsteps had reached the landing now. Would he head back to his bedroom, looking for John? When he didn’t find John downstairs, would he come upstairs, looking for him? Would John have time to warn him?

Gilly extended her gun arm, the muzzle all that much closer to John. “Don’t even think about doing anything stupid, poppet.”

Sherlock’s footsteps paused just at the landing. He didn’t move any further. John pictured him standing just at the entrance to the sitting room, surveying the scene. Deducing. Nothing was amiss downstairs, but leave it to Sherlock to be able to detect danger from nothing. He heard a squeak in the floorboards, a light shift in weight. Sherlock turning, glancing up the stairs.

John pressed his eyes closed. _Don’t come up here,_ he willed.

“What do you think?” Gilly grinned. “Think he’ll come looking for you?”

John met Gilly’s eyes in a manner he hoped was beseeching. “Please,” he said. “Please leave him be.”

Slowly, the footsteps turned. They started up the stairs. Sherlock was walking cautiously, John could tell. Still, the steps were old and the wood groaned beneath him.

Gilly slipped just to the side of the door, preparing an assault on anyone who entered. “Be perfectly still,” she said. Her gun remained trained on John. “And perfectly quiet.”

John’s brain was a white panic. He shook his head at Gilly. _Please. Please no._

Sherlock’s footsteps came closer. He was at the second landing now, just one more flight of stairs and he would be at John’s door. Gilly shifted her gun away from John, pointing it towards the door. She switched the safety off.

“SHERLOCK,” John shouted. “ _RUN_.”

Gilly lurched forward in one swift movement, gun raised in the air. John jumped backwards, doing his best to dodge, but Gilly was faster. She swung her arm downward in a furious motion. The butt of the gun crunched into John’s head and the world went black.


	10. Chapter 10

John sludged back into consciousness with an aching head and something thick crusted over one of his eyes. Blood, he realized. The side of his forehead was wet and throbbing, still gently leaking blood over his brow and into his eye. He blinked, trying his best to work open his eyes. The light flooded into his brain and his head shouted at him. He pressed his eyes shut again.

“John.” A slight whisper next to him.

John’s brain slowly started spinning again. He was on his back, he realized. Something soft underneath him—his mattress. His cheek was tilted onto a shoulder and his arms were raised over his head. He tried to move his arms but was stopped by what felt to be a coarse rope binding him to his headboard. He could feel the same rope around his ankles as well, securing him to the foot of the bed.

“ _John_.” The whisper was more insistent this time, and John recognized Sherlock’s voice. John’s eyes flew open, and he did his best to ignore the aching in his head.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock was lying next to him, his face less than half a meter from John’s. He was bound in a similar state, his arms tight above his head, secured to the headboard. It looked as if he sustained a few blows to the face, with light bruising around an eye and a small gash on his cheek that had already clotted up.

John cursed. “Are you alright?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded. He scanned John, looking a touch concerned. “Your head?” he asked.

Hurt like hell, but John had bigger concerns at the moment. “I’m fine,” he said. He jerked his arms, testing the binds on his wrists. The headboard rattled but held firm. He tried to wiggle his legs, but the restraints were too tight. He had virtually no range of motion, and each time he tugged at his limbs the ropes dug deep into his skin. A glance at Sherlock’s wrists—raw and scratched, bleeding in areas—revealed that Sherlock attempted a similar strategy but to no avail. John cursed again.

“I told you to run,” he whispered. “Why do you never run?”

“And leave you behind?” Sherlock asked. “Not an option. Never an option, John.”

“Well,” a cheery voice said from the other side of the room. “I see you’re both awake.” John turned his head towards the sound and saw Gilly propped up in the corner of the room. It appeared as if she had exchanged her gun for a very large knife. She looked overjoyed. “Now we can finally get down to business.”

A flash of a memory shot through John’s head—Sherlock explaining to him how the victims were found. Laying on their beds. Throats cut. Hands severed. Eyes gouged out. John wished he asked Sherlock which of those injuries occurred first, but they all seemed equally unpleasant at the moment.

“So,” Sherlock said, meeting Gilly’s gaze with a look of great interest. “You’re the Holiday Killer.”

“Indeed,” Gilly said, taking a step towards the two of them. “Pleased to see me?”

“I’d be a bit more pleased if we weren’t tied up at the moment,” Sherlock said.

“Sorry,” Gilly said, not seeming very sorry at all. “Not very much to be done about that, I’m afraid.” She twirled her knife in her hand. “I have to say, I’m feeling a bit smug at the moment. The great Sherlock Holmes never once suspected me to be the killer. Not even for a second.”

“I would have gotten there,” Sherlock said.

“You didn’t even think the killer was a woman,” Gilly said. “That’s a touch sexist, Sherlock.”

“There are exceedingly few female serial killers,” Sherlock said. “I was just playing the odds.”

“And I was right under your nose for so long.” Gilly made a little _tsk_ noise. “Did your feelings for my fiancé really make you so blind? Or are you truly not as clever as everyone says you are?”

“It’s certainly not the latter,” Sherlock said.

Watching Gilly, John saw very little of the woman he dated for nearly a year. Where the Gilly he knew was bubbly, this woman was sleek and cool. Where the Gilly he knew was chatty and just a touch flighty, this woman was calculating, sharp. He once saw Gilly cry at a movie where a cat died, and this woman looked as if she wished for nothing more than to gut the two of them like pigs. John considered that he spent the better part of a year dating a complete stranger, someone whose true nature was kept entirely hidden from him.

But then, John reasoned that the both of them had kept secrets from each other during this relationship. John’s secrets, however, now seemed trivial in comparison.

“Let me see if I’ve worked it out,” Sherlock said. “Your work at a travel agency allows you helpful access to information about potential victims and grants you the advantage of knowing more about the house in which they’ll be staying than the victims do themselves. Not to mention the little cameras you plant, surveying their every move while remaining undetected. The fact that rentals are listed through multiple agencies also makes the killings seem more random. Harder to trace back to you.”

“There’s always a dip in the rentals of a house after there’s been a murder there,” Gilly said. “But one must make sacrifices if one wants to get ahead in this world.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said. “And I couldn’t help but notice that many of the couples you killed were cheating on one another. I would wager they all were unfaithful, all your victims. That’s how you select them, is it not? Couples in which one or both partners were having an affair? Couples that present to the world as if perfect and happy but are housing a secret?”

“Isn’t it terrible?” Gilly said. She stood at the foot of the bed now, looming over John and Sherlock’s prone figures with her knife twirling in her fingers. “Dishonesty? Disloyalty? Such a blight on our society. I can’t make people more honest,” she tossed her knife in the air, catching it with ease, “but I _can_ make them pay.”

“This is all because your ex-boyfriend cheated on you?” John asked. “Seems like a bit of an excessive response.”

“Oh,” Gilly said, “that’s what got my wheels turning, I suppose. And dismantling the brakes in his car really did feel wonderful. You know, he went through the windshield when he hit that truck. So lovely. The only thing that would have made me happier than reading about his death in the papers the next day, I realized, would have been being there to see it happen.” She tapped her knife against her chin, looking pensive. “If I have one regret in this life, I’d say it’s that. It would have been so wonderful to have murdered him with my bare hands.” She shrugged. “Live and learn.”

“Killing him gave you a taste for it,” Sherlock said. “And a mission. A righteous crusade, in a way.”

“There is so much dishonesty in the world,” Gilly said. “So many people, pretending to love others, pretending to be solely committed to one person. Nothing but liars, the lot of them.” Gilly looked at John and her gaze turned to ice. “Present company included, as it turns out.” She smiled at John, something sick and terrifying. “I can’t tell you how fulfilling it is, listening to a cheater beg for their lives. Beg for the lives of their poor, cuckolded partner.” Gilly shimmied her shoulders, as if recalling the taste of a delicious tart. “It really does the heart good.”

Gilly’s use of the word _partner_ got a cold fear churning in John’s stomach. “Gilly,” John said. “I know what I did was terrible. Unforgivable. I am truly, truly sorry for it. You have every right to be angry with me. Every right in the world.” He swallowed, his vision going swimmy. “But please. _Please._ Let Sherlock go. He didn’t do anything in all of this.”

Gilly lifted a knee onto the bed, crawling between the two of them. “Sorry, poppet,” she said. “That’s not how any of this works.”

“No,” John said. “It doesn’t even make sense to keep Sherlock here. I was the one who cheated, Gilly. This was all me. Do whatever you like to me, but please. _Please._ ” John could hear his voice bordering on breaking. His throat was on fire. “Don’t do anything to hurt Sherlock.”

Gilly was fully on the bed now, kneeling between them with a joyful look on her face. “I’m afraid that not hurting Sherlock,” she said, “runs in direct opposition to my plans.”

John could feel a cold panic screeching through his veins. He tugged at the restraints, barely noticing the rope dig into his skin. “Gilly,” he begged. “ _Please_ —”

“John,” Sherlock said. His face was turned towards John.

John tilted his head, catching Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock looked sincere, determined.

“I’m not leaving you,” Sherlock said.

John blinked. His vision had gone a bit blurry. He shook his head at Sherlock. “Please,” he said.

Sherlock shook his head right back. “I’d never leave you, John.”

“Sherlock,” John whispered. He looked at the man tied to the bed next to him, bound and battered and defenseless and defiantly ready to die at John’s side, and loved him with a strength that nearly blindsided him. He hadn’t told Sherlock yet, John realized. He hadn’t told Sherlock that he loved him, and Sherlock needed to know before the two of them were chopped to bits. “Sherlock, I—”

The edge of the knife pressed to John’s throat, digging into skin just enough to bite.

“Are you seriously making moon eyes at your lover while your fiancé is in the room?” Gilly asked.

John opened his mouth. He’d had knives on him before, and if telling Sherlock that he loved him was the last thing he said before he died, John figured it might just be worth it. However, Sherlock’s eyes were trained on the knife and he seemed—for once—terrified. Sherlock shook his head slightly, silencing John. John exhaled, a jagged noise, feeling a tear slip from the corner of his eye. He turned his head, looking up at Gilly, mouth closed. _You win._

“That’s better,” Gilly said. She relieved some of the pressure on the knife at John’s throat but kept it close. “Now we can get on with things.”

“You have a particular way you progress with the murders,” Sherlock said, his face transforming back to normal—bored, almost. “Methodical. Ritualized. Typical of serial killers. However, us being a unique pair, I imagine you’ll have to change things up a bit. How are we feeling about that?”

“Oh,” Gilly said, “you’ll find that I’m a bit more flexible than your typical serial killer. Do what works, that’s what I say.” She shifted forward on the bed, leaning over Sherlock’s body. She traced along Sherlock’s jaw with the edge of her knife. John twisted in his restraints, but was able to do little besides rattle against the headboard and feel the rope tear at his wrists.

“You know,” Gilly said. “I used to kill the cheating one first. So their partner could watch them bleed out. I thought it might give them a bit of joy, to watch their lying, unfaithful partner die in front of them. But nobody seemed particularly pleased by it.” She pouted briefly then shrugged. “So I switched it. If it’s not bringing anyone joy, what’s the point? Besides, the cheaters are always so devastated to watch their partner die, all because of them.” She grinned. “And that gave _me_ joy.” She ran the blade down Sherlock’s neck, tracing along the skin just over his jugular. She glanced at John. “I expect, poppet, that watching your Sherlock bleed out in front of you will make you particularly devastated. And that will give me _loads_ of joy.”

“Gilly.” John strained against his restraints. The rope had worn a gash into one of his hands, and he could feel blood trickling down his arm. He didn’t care. “ _Please_. Please don’t hurt him.”

“Slash goes the throat,” Gilly said, her voice practically a singsong. She pantomimed the action, the knife just millimeters from Sherlock’s skin. “Off go the hands. Out come the eyes.” She looked at John with a face full of glee. “Then it’ll be your turn.”

“No it won’t,” Sherlock said darkly. For a man bound to a bed with a knife to his throat, he seemed confident.

“You won’t be around to see it, of course,” Gilly said. “But I assure you, Sherlock, the two of you will be very much dead in a few short moments.” She considered. “Well. The term _short_ is subjective.” She turned to John again. “If you’re squeamish,” she said, “I suggest looking away from him. Things are about to get a smidge bloody on this side of the bed.”

John pulled at the restraints with all his might. He felt in danger of dislocating his wrists, but was perfectly fine with ripping his own hand off at the moment if it meant knocking Gilly away from Sherlock. “ _Sherlock_ ,” he whispered.

Sherlock tilted his head back towards John. He smiled at John, a sweet, sad thing. John shook his head.

Gilly shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she said. She lowered the knife to Sherlock’s throat. “Let’s begin.”

John barely had time to shout before Gilly was rudely ripped backwards, her head snapping back and her knife flying. There was a blur of movement above them on the bed, a streak of something purple and swinging, and then a hard, wet noise as an unforgiving object collided with Gilly’s jaw. Gilly’s body twisted and flopped, her jaw wrenched terribly to one side. She collapsed half over John’s legs, twitching on the bed and trying her best to maintain her coherence.

Standing over her, fists raised in the air, was Mrs. Hudson. On her right hand was a blood-tinged set of brass knuckles.

“Mrs.—” John stammered. He wasn’t even able to get the whole of her name out.

Mrs. Hudson reared her right arm back and sent her fist slamming into Gilly’s head. The brass knuckles collided with Gilly’s temples with a thick, angry sound and Gilly went limp on the bed.

“Well,” Mrs. Hudson said, straightening and shaking out her fist. “ _That_ was certainly unpleasant, now wasn’t it?”

“ _Bravo_ , Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock was grinning madly, his eyes shining.

“Jesus _Christ,_ Mrs. Hudson,” John said, staring at Gilly’s lifeless body. She appeared to still be alive, breathing shallowly, but she was bleeding profusely from her head and her jaw seemed broken.

“Now, if you could be so kind as to cut us loose,” Sherlock said, wriggling a bit in his restraints, “I believe Gilly’s knife is just to my left.”

Mrs. Hudson was already moving, grabbing at the knife and hacking away at the restraints at Sherlock’s wrists. “You boys always get yourselves into so much trouble,” she said. “And here I was, looking forward to a quiet morning.” She severed the rope at Sherlock’s wrists in a few moments and started on the restraints at his ankles. As she did so, Sherlock twisted to the side, starting to work the knots at John’s wrist restraints.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked as he worked.

“Yes. _Christ._ ” John was jittery and disoriented, still not fully comprehending all that had just come to pass but desperately needing his hands free so that he could touch Sherlock. He badly needed to feel Sherlock’s living body at the moment.

“She wasn’t very nice in the end, now was she?” Mrs. Hudson asked, rolling Gilly’s unconscious body to the side so she could start to cut at the restraints on John’s legs.

Sherlock got John’s wrists free and John grabbed at him, hands in his hair, pulling their foreheads together. He kissed at Sherlock’s mouth, bleary and uncoordinated. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head. He touched at the spot where Gilly’s gun collided with John’s temple. “Can you move?” he asked.

John nodded and Sherlock tugged him into sitting. John slipped his legs out from underneath Gilly’s body and climbed off the bed. Mrs. Hudson watched them, Gilly’s knife still in her hand, looking amused.

Sherlock grabbed at Mrs. Hudson’s shoulders, swinging her around. “Well _done,_ Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said. “An expert defense by an expert landlady.”

John’s legs felt a bit unsteady, but he wrapped Mrs. Hudson up into a hug nonetheless. “Where in the hell,” he asked, “did you get brass knuckles?”

“I was married to a drug dealer, John,” she chided. “Of _course_ I would have the means to defend myself if need be.”

Sherlock was busy at Gilly’s body, using some of the scraps of rope to bind her hands behind her back. “I don’t suppose you called the police?” he asked.

“Oh, of course,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I called them as soon as I got the sense that you lot were in trouble. I’m glad I came upstairs to check on you, though. Scotland Yard’s response times are bloody awful.”

Sherlock glanced down at Mrs. Hudson’s brass knuckles. “You’ll want to hide those away before they get here.”

“Of course,” she said, scurrying out of the room. “Back in with my delicates, they go.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Mrs. Hudson as she disappeared back down the stairs. “My inclination is that if we were to search her flat we would discover a veritable arsenal,” he said.

John stepped closer to Sherlock. Sherlock turned towards him and John placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips. “You’re alright?” he asked again.

Sherlock nodded. His eyes were on the gash on John’s head. “You should get that looked after,” he said. “You might have a concussion.” He stared into John’s eyes, checking his pupils. “Are you dizzy?” he asked. “Nauseous?”

John ran his hands along Sherlock’s sides. “I’m fine,” he said.

“Do you know what day of the week it is?” Sherlock asked. “Do you know where you are?”

“It’s Thursday,” John said, smiling. “I’m at Baker Street. With you. And a landlady who apparently owns an illegal set of brass knuckles. And I’m fairly certain _I’m_ the one who’s supposed to be asking these sorts of questions.”

Sherlock’s fingers traced along John’s face. His eyes scanned him, brow furrowed. “Your speech doesn’t appear slurred,” he said. “How is your memory? Can you remember all the events leading up to the injury? Repeat the days of the week backwards, starting at—”

“Sherlock,” John laughed, taking Sherlock’s face into his hands. “I’m fine.” He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips, soft and lingering. He felt Sherlock relax against him. Sherlock touched his hands to John’s arms, the contact tentative.

“You have abysmal taste in girlfriends, John,” Sherlock said.

John chuckled. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

Sherlock glanced down, suddenly struggling a bit with eye contact. “John,” he said. “I apologize for...my role in everything. I shouldn’t have acted so impulsively last night, especially when I knew you had a significant other.”

“Sherlock,” John said.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, considering. “Sure, she turned out to be a serial killer,” he said, “but before you knew about that she was the person you loved. She still might be—she really was quite impressive in the end. The killings were well thought-out. I wouldn’t fault you. She was the person who you wanted to be with, and—”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John said. “I was breaking it off with her.”

Sherlock’s eyes lifted to John’s, full of surprise. “What?”

“After you left this morning,” John said, “I came up here to call her. I was going to try to meet up with her. To tell her that it was over between us.” He glanced at Gilly’s body, still unconscious on the bed. “Then she tried to kill me. Guess she sort of beat me to breaking it off, then.”

Sherlock’s grip on John’s arms tightened. He was staring at John with intensity.

“You need to know,” John said, “that even if she hadn’t. You know. Tied us up and tried to murder us. I still would have ended things with her. She wasn’t right for me.” John considered. “Turns out, she wasn’t right for me in more ways than one, but… She wasn’t the one I loved.”

“John,” Sherlock said. His fingers were wrapped around John’s arms rather tightly now. He seemed afraid to let go.

“I love you,” John said. “Sherlock. I love you so much and I’m done. I’m done pretending. I’m done pretending I haven’t wanted you since the day we met. I’m done telling people we’re not a couple when this is the best relationship I’ve ever had. I’m done standing next to you with my hands in my pockets when all I want to do is grab you and shag you into next week. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t. If you don’t feel… If you don’t want…” John swallowed. “That’s fine. I’ll cope. But Christ, Sherlock. I love you so much and I’m through pretending I don’t.”

Then Sherlock was kissing him, his hands in John’s hair, his mouth open and insistent against John’s. John let out a moan and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, doing little else aside from holding on as Sherlock kissed him with what felt like everything he had. When the two separated, John was breathless, his heart hammering in his chest.

John swallowed. Eye contact was suddenly a bit difficult. “Do you…” he started, “for me?”

Sherlock’s hand was on John’s face, his thumb tracing along John’s jaw. “I’ve already told you how I feel, John,” he said.

John’s brow furrowed. “You have?”

“The other night,” Sherlock said. “At the pub.”

John felt a heat sweep through his body, something like joy fluttering in his chest. “That was…” he said. “I mean, I’d hoped it was real. But I thought you might’ve just been shamming.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I could only pretend so much,” he said. “Especially with you. Every bit of it was true, John. Every last bit. I’ve never felt for anyone what I feel for you, and it was terrifying. _You_ were terrifying. It was so much and I didn’t know what to make of any of it and by the time I stopped being terrified I had somehow managed to convince you that I was uninterested in romantic relationships altogether and you had lost interest and were busy chasing every available female in London and I was certain I’d lost my chance with you forever, and…” He pressed his eyes closed. “I’m talking too much.”

John laughed. He ran a hand along Sherlock’s neck, up into his hair. “You usually are,” he said. “But I don’t mind.”

“The long and short of it is,” Sherlock said, “that I love you too. I always have, and I always will.”

John felt a grin spread across his face that threatened to split him in half. He laughed again, a sound filled with joy and relief. He grabbed at Sherlock, pressing their foreheads together. “God,” he said, “that sounds beautiful.”

“It’s the truth,” Sherlock said, and brought their mouths together again. This kiss was different, no longer necessitating the urgency of two people who thought they might never have an opportunity to touch again. No, this time it was slow, deep, exploratory. John dug his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock wrapped his arms fully around John and John felt _enveloped_ in every sense of the word, as if he and Sherlock were slipping into a singular unit right there in his crime scene of a bedroom. John heard himself make a little noise and Sherlock’s breathing grew unsteady against him and—god—the two of them could have stayed like that forever.

There was a knock against the doorframe. A careful clearing of the throat. “If you boys don’t mind,” Mrs. Hudson said, “the police are here.”

John nearly jumped out of his skin. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “How are you always so bloody silent?”

“I’ve many talents you haven’t even considered, John Watson,” Mrs. Hudson said with a mischievous grin, disappearing once more down the stairs.

“Right,” John said, looking back at Sherlock. “I think our landlady is properly terrifying.”

Sherlock nodded. He glanced back at Gilly’s body, still limp on the bed. “Are you ready to talk to Scotland Yard about your serial killer girlfriend?”

“ _Ex_ -girlfriend,” John said. “And more than ever.” He reached out a hand for Sherlock, an offer.

Sherlock took it.


	11. Chapter 11

Talking to the police was tedious, as it always was. John’s bedroom was soon flooded with officers, taking pictures and dusting for prints. Paramedics came and handcuffed Gilly— slowly starting to regain consciousness—onto a stretcher. She was muttering something about her presumed innocence, but a floral-print duffel bag filled with all sorts of Gilly’s equipment—rope and knives and spare ammunition and other such things—seemed to be a rather damning piece of evidence against her.

Lestrade scrutinized Gilly’s injuries before they loaded her into the ambulance. “What exactly did you hit her with, Mrs. Hudson?” he asked.

“A broomstick,” Mrs. Hudson replied.

Lestrade glanced at Gilly’s face and then back at Mrs. Hudson, raising an eyebrow.

“A very sturdy broomstick,” Mrs. Hudson said.

Lestrade said nothing else on the matter.

The three of them gave initial statements to the police and made arrangements to come by the station the following day to provide more details on the goings-on in the flat this morning. The paramedics urged John to go to A&E for further screening for a concussion, but John refused.

“Sherlock’s already checked me for a concussion,” John said. “I’m fine.”

The paramedics reminded John that Sherlock was not a medical professional.

“I’m a quick study,” Sherlock said.

So the paramedics patched John up and allowed him to remain at the flat. They checked Sherlock over as well, although his injuries were superficial in nature—a few bruises and scratches. They treated the rope burns on both of their wrists. After each of them had been medically cleared and thoroughly questioned and John’s bedroom had been searched and photographed within an inch of its life, the police departed, leaving the three of them in the silence of the flat. Sherlock insisted that Lestrade stay behind for a few moments to converse about Hugh and what Sherlock hoped was a fairly speedy release from custody. The two of them chatted outside the flat while John and Mrs. Hudson went back inside.

“That sure was something, now wasn’t it?” Mrs. Hudson said. “Don’t know how you boys do that every other week. I think I’ll make myself a cuppa and have a little rest.” With that, she disappeared inside her flat.

John trudged up the stairs to 221b, not particularly sure what to do with himself. John’s luggage still sat at the door, untouched. The thought of walking it back upstairs to unpack was quite unpleasant at the moment. John also had little to no desire to return to his own bedroom again. He was also more than a bit exhausted.

Realizing that he hadn’t had time to clean up properly since the day before, John opted for the loo. He still had dried blood caked around his temples and hands, and felt sticky with sweat. He also, he remembered, had some residue on his stomach from his activities with Sherlock the night before that ought to have been washed off long ago. Yes—a wash-up was definitely needed.

Not quite possessing the energy to remain standing for a full shower, John opted to draw himself a bath. The bathtub in the flat was nowhere near as lovely as the clawfoot tub in the cottage, but it had served its function on multiple occasions before, and John was reasonably certain there were no cameras in the loo in 221b. He turned the water as hot as he could stand and watched the tub slowly fill, the mirrors growing steamy. He tugged the bandage off his head (it was a bit unnecessary, anyway), slid out of his clothes, and slipped into the near-scalding water.

John sighed and sank back against the porcelain of the tub. He could feel the tension start to leave his body almost immediately, the stress and sadness and fury and terror of the past few days begin to leak from his muscles, leaving him calm and floppy. He breathed into the steam of the room, allowing his eyes to slide shut. It felt wonderful to be still for a moment. He washed himself slowly, rinsing off the dried blood and residue in an unhurried manner. The water wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was John. John would be here—in this flat, in 221b, with Sherlock—for a long time to come, he had a feeling.

There was a gentle tapping on the door, and Sherlock poked his head into the loo. He seemed cautious, as if unsure he ought to be opening the door even a crack.

“You’re allowed,” John chuckled.

Sherlock walked into the bathroom, looking sheepish. “You seemed rather adamant about your privacy before,” he said.

“I think the situation has changed a bit,” John said, tipping his head back to rinse the remaining bits of soap from his hair.

Sherlock perched himself on the edge of the tub, seeming unsure if he should look at John or the floor. “Lestrade confirmed that Hugh will be released,” he said.

“That’s good,” John said. “I’m sure Hugh is relieved about that.”

“He’ll lose his job, of course,” Sherlock said. “Something about an employee with a penchant for lurking outside of cottage windows in the hopes of watching tenants shag isn’t particularly appealing to a rental company, it turns out.”

“No,” John said. “No, I suppose it isn’t. Still better than being a serial killer, though.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, “but nowhere near as interesting.”

John chuckled and Sherlock grinned, risking a glance in John’s direction. His gaze lingered, and John saw something like want in his eyes.

John shifted forward in the tub. “Get in,” he said.

Sherlock blinked. “You’re sure?”

“I’ll always be sure,” John said. “Besides, we never got to take advantage of that tub at the cottage. You owe me a bath.”

“Unforgivable,” Sherlock said, but he was already tugging off his clothes.

John allowed himself an unabashed stare at Sherlock’s body as it was slowly revealed—the long, pale chest that lay beneath his slim shirts, the lean, strong legs sheathed in his tailored trousers. John was more than a little pleased to see that Sherlock’s cock was already starting to grow plump, lifting ever so slightly from his body as he peeled his pants to his ankles.

Sherlock stepped into the tub, hissing at the heat that still lingered in the water. He settled behind John, tucking his legs on either side of John’s. John leaned backwards against Sherlock’s chest and rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and John felt _enveloped._ He let his eyes slide closed, unable to help the smile that spread across his face.

“I love you,” John said, because he could. And he did.

“And I love you,” Sherlock said. His nose brushed against John’s temple and John could feel him inhale, breathing John in. For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were the two of them breathing, punctuated by the occasional drip of the faucet. John could have stayed there forever.

“I owe you an apology,” Sherlock said.

“ _Two_ apologies from Sherlock Holmes in twenty-four hours?” John asked. “Someone ought to phone the papers.”

“I’ve treated you terribly,” Sherlock said. “This week… The things I said to you. They were awful, John, and I didn’t mean a one of them.”

“I know,” John said. “It’s alright, Sherlock.”

“I wasn’t right,” Sherlock said. “I was hurt.”

“I know,” John said. He rubbed at Sherlock’s arm.

“You being with her,” Sherlock said. “You being with any of them. It was maddening. It’s always been maddening. I knew I shouldn’t be so hateful. You didn’t feel for me the same way I felt for you, I thought, and I should be happy for you.” He tightened his arms around John. “But you didn’t seem very happy yourself, not with any of them. You seemed happy with me, and I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand how you couldn’t feel...something. For me.”

“I did,” John said. He tilted his head towards Sherlock, his nose nudging against Sherlock’s neck. “I _did_ , Sherlock. I felt so much for you.”

“It was destroying me,” Sherlock said. “Thinking you didn’t feel anything like I felt. Knowing I would lose you completely one day, having never even had you. And when you got engaged, it felt like a fatal injury. I became a wounded animal, lashing out in pain and confusion.”

John kissed at Sherlock’s jaw. “I shouldn’t have accepted Gilly’s proposal,” he said. “I didn’t want to. I don’t even know why I said yes. I knew it was a mistake the moment it happened, and—god—Sherlock, I never wanted to hurt you.”

“You didn’t know,” Sherlock said.

“Do you know how I’ve wanted you, Sherlock?” John said, resting his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. “I thought for so long that we would never… But, _Christ_ , how I wanted you all the same.”

“I’ve wanted you too, John,” Sherlock said. His voice was a quiet rumble against John’s forehead. He sighed, a wavering sound. “This past week was hell.”

John turned his head, straining to catch Sherlock’s gaze. “Was it?”

“Pretending to be something I thought we’d never be,” Sherlock said. “Knowing that every time I was near to you, every time I touched you, every time I kissed you, it could be the last and I was never to have another opportunity. It was killing me, John.”

“It was killing me too,” John said, his voice growing thick. “You looking at me like that, touching me, doing everything I’d wished you’d done for years. And knowing, the whole time, you were just shamming. It was awful.”

“It wasn’t shamming,” Sherlock said. His lips were pressed to John’s forehead. “Not all of it. Not after I realized how wonderful it all was.” John could feel Sherlock’s heart hammering against his back. John’s breathing seemed to have gone heavy. “And that last night at the cottage,” Sherlock whispered. “After the pub. After you kissed me. When we were on the sofa.”

John nodded. His eyes slid shut. “I wanted you so badly.”

“I wanted you too,” Sherlock said. “I thought I’d never have you, never again.”

John heard himself make a little moaning noise. He reached behind him and grabbed at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “You have me now,” John said.

Sherlock smiled. John could feel Sherlock’s lips move against his forehead. “It appears I do,” he said.

“If we hadn’t been interrupted last night,” John asked, “would you have kissed me?”

“Most certainly,” Sherlock said.

John swallowed. He was suddenly struck by how turned on he was, his cock rigid and floating in the water just over his stomach. “Would you have fucked me?” he whispered.

He could feel Sherlock’s breath stutter in his throat. “Yes,” Sherlock breathed.

John made a noise he couldn’t quite comprehend. He craned his head back, nipping at Sherlock’s lips with a mouth that wasn’t fully coordinated anymore. Sherlock caught John’s jaw in a hand that had no intentions of shielding anything and kissed him with fervor, his tongue twisting against John’s, exploring, his breaths hot against John’s lips.

John bit at Sherlock’s lower lip and tugged at Sherlock’s curls. “Would you fuck me now?” he asked.

Sherlock’s response was hungry, lunging forward and shoving John against the side of the tub, his mouth on John’s lips, his jaw, his neck, his chest. “God yes,” Sherlock growled.

The tub hadn’t even fully drained by the time they were back in Sherlock’s bedroom, collapsed in a tangle on Sherlock’s bed. They had barely taken the time to dry off and were still pink and damp from the water. John’s hair was dripping and Sherlock’s curls were a frizzed mess. John watched little beads of water drip down the curves of Sherlock’s chest and wanted to lick each one off him individually. He wanted to lick every inch of Sherlock, if he could. He decided to try.

He pushed Sherlock onto his back and climbed atop him, straddling his thighs. He bit at Sherlock’s neck, feeling the vibrations of his moans against his tongue. Sherlock’s hands were everywhere—on John’s arse, along his back, in his hair.

“So,” Sherlock said, his breath hitching. “What is John Watson like in a relationship? A real one?”

“I don’t know,” John said. His mouth was on Sherlock’s collarbone and working its way lower. “I get the feeling the rules will be different with you. I get the feeling everything will be different with you.”

“I can call you pet names, then?” He could hear Sherlock’s smile.

“You can call me whatever you like,” John said, twisting his tongue around one of Sherlock’s nipples. “You can call me _darling_ or _sweetums_ or _idiot_.” He bit at Sherlock’s nipple, his cock throbbing at the sound it drew from Sherlock. “You can hold doors for me or you can insist I hold them for you. Or you can slam them in my face. I don’t care.” He mouthed down Sherlock’s stomach, hands on Sherlock’s hips, holding his writhing body still. “Just don’t stop touching me,” he said. “Don’t ever stop touching me.”

“You might change your mind about the touching when we’re at crime scenes,” Sherlock said. He sounded breathless, his face tipped towards the ceiling.

“I’ll never change my mind about you touching me,” John said, and licked a thick stripe up Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock gasped and his hands closed tight in John’s hair. John’s mouth moved along Sherlock’s cock, placing teasing kisses along his shaft, smiling at the sounds Sherlock made above him. If it meant that Sherlock was making those sounds, that John was pulling those sounds from him, John was keen to keep on doing this forever—mouthing at Sherlock’s cock, swirling his tongue around his head, taking the whole of him in, as deep into his throat as he could manage.

However, John managed to force himself off of Sherlock’s cock, crawling back up his gasping body. He hovered over Sherlock, hands on either side of his head. “And you,” he said. “You’re Sherlock Holmes. You’re you. You like to play the violin when you think and sometimes you don’t talk for hours on end. You’re brilliant and mad and more than a bit of an arsehole and the man I fell unsalvageably in love with. That’s who I’ve got, right?”

Sherlock smiled. He ran a hand over John’s face. “That’s who you’ve got.”

“Good,” John said. “Because that’s the only person I want.”

Sherlock tugged John down on top of them and their lips met, open and wet and sweet and very decidedly _real_. Then Sherlock was rolling the both of them and John was on his back, Sherlock planted between his legs. Sherlock rolled his hips and their cocks slid against each other’s and John gasped against Sherlock’s mouth. John hitched his legs around Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock set a slow rhythm against him, each stroke sending little flickers of sensation through John’s body. Sherlock’s mouth was on John’s neck, biting at him in a manner that John knew would leave a mark. He rather hoped there _would_ be a mark. Sherlock ran his hand along John’s side, down his hip, curving around his arse to reach the entrance to his body.

John placed a hand on Sherlock’s, stilling him. “Wait,” he said, gasping, very much not wanting Sherlock to stop. “We need… Do you have…?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed for a moment and then he grinned, popping off John. He rushed over to his luggage, sitting just by his dresser and still packed from their holiday.

John propped himself up on his elbows. “What…?”

Sherlock fished a rather large box out of the suitcase. He held it up, waggling an eyebrow.

“Where did you get...?” John fell back onto the bed, remembering. “Mrs. Hudson,” he said.

Sherlock tossed the box of condoms onto the bed, settling back down beside John. “It would seem the list of things for which we owe her thanks is getting quite large,” he said. “I am starting to wonder if a gift is in order. Flowers, perhaps.”

“Later,” John said, tugging Sherlock back on top of him. “We’ll discuss it later.” He pulled Sherlock’s mouth back onto his, reveling in the feel of Sherlock’s lips moving against his. God, he didn’t think he’d ever get enough of Sherlock’s mouth, of finally being able to kiss him. John released Sherlock just long enough for Sherlock to retrieve the bottle of lube from the nightstand and was already pulling him back down as Sherlock slicked his fingers.

“It’s been a while,” John said as Sherlock rubbed a finger in small circles just over his hole. “This. For me.”

“For me as well,” Sherlock whispered against John’s cheek. “As you know.” He massaged the tip of his finger into John and John gasped, the sensation strange but not unpleasant. John bore down against Sherlock, taking more of him in. He could feel Sherlock’s breaths growing ragged against him, Sherlock’s forehead dipping down to his shoulder. Sherlock’s finger pulsed inside him, tiny movements in and out.

“You feel incredible,” Sherlock said.

John was about to comment that _he_ was meant to be saying things like that when Sherlock quirked his finger upwards and grazed against his prostate and John was suddenly unable to speak altogether. His head tilted back and he made a sound he didn’t fully recognize and he could feel Sherlock grin against his skin, repeating the movement with enthusiasm.

“More?” Sherlock asked

John was no longer capable of speech. He nodded.

The stretch was greater when the second finger was added, but Sherlock kissed him through it, biting at his lips, whispering at him to breathe. John breathed and grabbed at Sherlock and the discomfort dissolved into something sweet as Sherlock set a slow rhythm, rocking his body against John’s in time with the movements of his hand. John could feel Sherlock’s erection drag along his hip, drops of precome wetting his skin. Sherlock twisted his fingers, scissoring them open, stroked at John’s prostate and John wondered if he might come from just this, just from Sherlock’s fingers working inside of him. He didn’t want to, not this time.

John reached to his side, clambering for the box of condoms. He shoved the thing at Sherlock’s chest, hoping that this would communicate with as much efficiency as possible that he needed Sherlock _now._

Sherlock chuckled, catching the box in his free hand and sitting back on his heels, keeping his fingers inside John. John whimpered at the sudden lack of contact, moving himself against Sherlock’s hand in a way that seemed just outside of his control. He looked up at Sherlock through barely-open eyes. Sherlock looked like a glorious mess. A flush had crept over his face and chest, and his hair was a knotted wreck from the bath. His plump lips were swollen and pink and he had the mark of more than a few love-bites on his neck. At the moment, however, Sherlock’s gaze was focused entirely on his fingers disappearing inside of John. His mouth had dropped slightly open and he appeared transfixed, seconds away from pouncing. He looked magnificent, debauched and wrecked, and if John didn’t feel more of him—all of him—immediately he might explode from it.

“Sherlock,” John managed to choke out. His voice was barely recognizable. “You need to fuck me.”

Sherlock seemed to come to, his face fading from one of rapt interest to something decidedly predatory. John’s cock gave a lurch at the change in Sherlock’s expression and he could have taken him into his body right then and there. Sherlock slipped his fingers out of John and had a condom on and his cock slicked in a matter of seconds. He settled on top of John, propping himself on his hands, his cock positioned at John’s entrance. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s waist, canting his hips upwards.

“Are you ready?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded. _God_ was he ready.

And then Sherlock was inside, the head of his cock slipping just into John’s hole. It was a stretch—much wider than fingers—and John sucked in air at the throbbing burn. Sherlock held himself there, allowing John time to adjust to him, his arms shaking ever so slightly.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked. His face was filled with concern, but John could see the effect of the act—the tight press of John’s body against Sherlock’s cock—in Sherlock’s eyes, in the flush on his cheeks, on his slack lips. John shifted slightly against Sherlock, breathing, relaxing.

“God you’re beautiful,” John whispered.

Sherlock smiled, a breathy thing, and when he leaned down for a kiss John tightened his legs and pulled Sherlock in further, his cock slowly sliding deeper into him. Sherlock gasped into John’s mouth, going momentarily immobile, and John couldn’t help the grin that started across his face. He could feel his body adapting, stretching, relaxing, bringing Sherlock in. The sharp pain gave way to a feeling of fullness, which gave way to something warm and lovely, something that sparked at his nerve endings and made his breathing hitch. He relaxed his legs around Sherlock’s waist ever so slightly and nodded, a communication that Sherlock was free to move.

Sherlock withdrew slowly, pushing back in with a moan. His head dropped to John’s shoulder and John could feel the whole of Sherlock’s body shaking against him.

“You feel…” Sherlock started, but lost however he meant to finish that sentence as he moved inside of John once more, slow but deep, his words dissolving into a groan.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him in closer, faster. He adjusted his hips, tilting them further upward. Sherlock’s cock nudged against his prostate and John let out a cry. “I can’t…” John breathed, barely able to form proper words. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

Sherlock’s mouth found his and his lips moved against John’s in something akin to a kiss, a not-quite kiss that was somehow something more. There was something else to it, something deeper, passionate. It was messy and uncoordinated and desperate and everything. John caught Sherlock’s face in his hands and not-quite kissed him back and Sherlock’s hips sped up against John, his cock driving into John faster, harder, deeper. John whimpered against Sherlock and Sherlock growled against John and the two moved together, a fumbling mass of hands and mouths and legs and not-quite kisses.

Then they were barely coordinated enough to kiss at all. Sherlock rolled his forehead against John’s, making halting little cries against him. His hips snapped against John, his cock driving inside, each thrust making John shake. John reached between them and took his cock in his hand, moaning as his fingers wrapped around his shaft, tightening and stroking. Sherlock tilted his head downwards, watching them as they moved together, watching John as he pulled at his cock, flushed dark red and harder than anything.

“God,” Sherlock gasped. “John. I can't…”

John nodded, because he couldn’t for much longer either. Everything inside him was lighting up, swelling, building. Sherlock’s thrusts were frantic, driving against him with a force that knocked the breath from John with each stroke. John’s hand flew over his cock. He was dimly aware that he was making noise, a lot of noise, and none of it made very much sense. Then Sherlock’s mouth was on his again and he parted John’s lips and his tongue slid inside and it was every kiss that John had ever wanted from Sherlock and then he was coming, hands flying over his erupting cock as he shuddered and screamed against Sherlock, limbs wrapping around to pull him closer, tighter. Sherlock gasped and his mouth froze against John’s and his hips pumped three times in quick succession and a gut-punch cry escaped his lips and his body was shaking, shaking, falling apart on top of John.

“Christ,” John breathed, his hand in Sherlock’s hair, on his cheek, pushing the sweat from his eyes. Sherlock was slowing his movements inside John, shifting inside him in slow, pulsing thrusts, each one making John’s worn body spark. Sherlock opened his eyes, looking down at John with an awed expression. John felt a smile come across his face and Sherlock smiled in return, blinking as if he was still trying to work out all that had transpired between them.

“I…” John started. He was still catching his breath, and finding himself a little lost in Sherlock’s eyes at the moment.

“You love me,” Sherlock said. It sounded like a fact that, to Sherlock, seemed improbable but was somehow inexplicably true.

“Yes,” John said, his smile stretching even wider. “I do.”

Sherlock kissed him again, a proper kiss, slow and sweet. He slipped out of John with a little whimper and settled himself flat on John’s chest, their bodies slick and messy, fitting together just so. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s back and Sherlock tucked his head against John’s neck, sighing each panted breath away until their heartbeats slowed as one.

Yes, John thought, the two of them would definitely have to buy Mrs. Hudson some flowers. At the very least.

Sherlock lifted his head from John, looking down at him with gleaming, intense eyes. His hair was wild and sticking to the sweat on his temples. The flush had still not properly receded from his face. “To be perfectly clear,” he said. “You and I are in a relationship now.”

John laughed. “Yes,” he said. “Yes we are.”

“A real one,” Sherlock said.

“I should hope so,” John said.

“Good,” Sherlock said, resting his head back on John’s chest. “We are in agreement, then.”

“Total agreement,” John said.

That was how they drifted off to sleep, sweat slowly drying on their bodies, damp hair going wild in the humidity of the room, wrapped up in each other as if they had no need for anything else. Completely real, and in total agreement.


	12. Chapter 12

The dull roar of the journalists outside the flat could be heard through the windows. There were occasional strobes of camera flashes that flickered through the room, and their shouted commands were a wordless din that sounded more like the rush of traffic than humans attempting to speak. It was oddly nicer, John thought, to have a wall between himself and the media frenzy for once.

Once the story of the capture of the Holiday Killer broke, the papers and news stations were nearly frothing at the mouth for coverage of the event and—in particular—the little old lady who took down the infamous serial killer. Mrs. Hudson was currently just outside the flat, curtly answering the endless questions hurled at her by the journalists, no doubt providing more than a few soundbites that would be quoted for weeks to come.

John and Sherlock asked if she wanted either of them to accompany her for moral support.

“Why would I need moral support?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “It’s just questions. I think I can make do answering a few questions.”

So after Sherlock reminded her that she absolutely, decidedly, did _not_ own a set of brass knuckles and John asked her to try to mention the website at least once, they let her face the swarm of reporters on her own. Based on the chatter punctuated by occasional bouts of laughter, she seemed to be holding her own just fine.

John and Sherlock were passing the time lounging on the sofa. Sherlock was in his post-case bout of lethargy, clothed in pyjamas and spending most of his time horizontal, except this particular bout of lethargy involved John being horizontal as well and was notably less lethargic than in previous instances. John considered that they ought to purchase Mrs. Hudson some noise-cancelling headphones, or at least set up a periodic sort of flower delivery as a form of apology for the regular disturbances. Mrs. Hudson didn’t seem to mind the disturbances per se, but her little winks at them the next morning were making John more than a little embarrassed.

Mrs. Hudson’s attack had given Gilly a concussion and a fractured jaw, but otherwise she was in good health and passionately professing her innocence. Her trial was set for the following month, and the lot of them were likely to be witnesses. John hoped he wouldn’t have to once again bail Sherlock out of jail after being a smartarse got him held in contempt of court, but he wouldn’t exactly hold his breath on that matter. Hearing all the colorful things Mrs. Hudson had to say about Gilly these past few days had him wondering if he might have to bail the _both_ of them out in the end. He smiled at the assortment of delightful nutters he had chosen to spend his life with.

At the moment, Sherlock was sprawled on top of him, his nose buried against John’s neck and his curls brushing at John’s cheek. He had an arm pushed under John’s jumper, fingers rubbing slowly across skin, not so much a seduction as a slow exploration. Sherlock seemed to be embarking on a very thorough mapping of the whole of John’s body and John was not at all keen to stop him.

“It’s nice, I suppose,” Sherlock said, his words tickling John’s skin. “To be on this side of it. To be spared having to dance for the imbeciles with cameras.”

John chuckled. He ran a hand up Sherlock’s back. “You hate it,” he said. “You wish you were down there.”

“I don’t,” Sherlock said.

“Everybody celebrating how brilliant you are…”

“I do not,” Sherlock said.

John grinned. “Wearing the hat…”

“I most _certainly_ do not.” Sherlock punctuated his argument with a pinch against John’s ribs. John flinched and giggled, kissing at Sherlock’s curls.

“When I write up this case,” he asked, “should I note it as one of your rare failures?”

Sherlock lifted himself onto an elbow, studying John with narrowed eyes. “I didn’t _fail_ ,” he said. “I caught the Holiday Killer, didn’t I?”

“Mmmm,” John said. “Sort of. After she literally came to your flat. And announced herself. As the Holiday Killer.”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock said.

“And,” John said, “technically _you_ didn’t catch her. She was taken out by your elderly landlady.”

“Well,” Sherlock said, settling his head back onto John’s shoulder, “at least I didn’t _date_ her.”

“Yeah,” John said. “That’s true.”

“Or become _engaged_ to her.” John could hear the bitterness in Sherlock’s voice.

“Everybody makes mistakes,” John said. “That’s been well-established.”

“Your mistakes were much more egregious,” Sherlock muttered.

John wrapped his arms tighter around Sherlock. “Being with anybody who’s not you? Yeah, I’d say that was a fairly large mistake.” John felt Sherlock smile against his shoulder. “Especially seeing how horrifically jealous it made you.”

“I wasn’t _jealous_ ,” Sherlock said.

“You were tremendously jealous,” John said. “You were practically green.”

“I was merely frustrated with you,” Sherlock said. “You and I were meant to be together— _obviously_ —and you were taking forever to figure it out.”

John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead, smiling. “I got there eventually.”

“You always do,” Sherlock said. “Eventually.”

John smiled and settled his cheek against Sherlock’s curls, breathing in the scent of his hair. He smelled warm and posh and loving, and it didn’t hurt that John had been there in the shower with him this morning, watching him as he worked the shampoo into his hair. It was a lovely morning, even after the water ran cold and the two of them grew breathless and pruney.

Sherlock propped himself onto an elbow, staring down at John with a serious expression. “Because you’re so appallingly slow at figuring all of this out,” he said, “I think I’d best explain a few of the next bits to you. I fear waiting for you to come to the conclusion on your own will take catastrophically long, and the information is simply too important.”

“Okay,” said John.

“This,” Sherlock said, gesturing between the two of them. “You and I. This is permanent. This is not meant to end. We will remain _this_ ,” he gestured again, “until one or the both of us dies. Preferably the latter. Were you aware of that?”

“No,” John said, barely able to speak through the grin spreading across his face. “That is, I’d hoped, but…” He rubbed at Sherlock’s arm. “I’m aware of it now.”

“Now that I think about it,” Sherlock said, “seeing as there’s no clear consensus on the presence or absence of life after death, I would plan for the afterlife as well. This. Just to be safe.”

“Alright,” John said. “I will.”

“The point is,” Sherlock said. “I’m not leaving you. Not ever. Not for a moment.”

“Good,” John said. “Because I’m not leaving you either.”

“Good,” Sherlock said. “So you’re amenable?”

“Very amenable,” John grinned. “Provided you kiss me in the next five seconds.”

Sherlock complied. He shifted his body atop John’s and pressed their lips together in a kiss that was sweet and slow, the pace of partners who had their whole lives ahead of them to explore each other properly, thoroughly. John slid his hands along Sherlock’s back, allowing the tips of his fingers to graze the very start of Sherlock’s arse. The kiss deepened. Breaths grew labored. Sherlock worked a thigh between John’s leg and started grinding slowly against him. John was about to start taking Sherlock's clothing off piece by piece, and preferably with his mouth, when there was a prim knock at the door.

Mrs. Hudson stood at the entrance to the flat, doing her best not to look directly at them. “I’m all finished up,” she said, “but the lot of them want to talk to you two next.”

Sherlock let out a noise of complaint, his head dropping against John’s chest. “But we didn’t even _do_ anything,” he said. “ _You_ caught the killer. And it’s much more interesting in here than out there.”

“I see that,” Mrs. Hudson said, her eyes flitting ever so quickly in their direction. “But the reporters want to talk to you all the same.” She waved her hands in their direction. _Up._

Sherlock groaned loudly but lifted himself off the sofa all the same, adjusting an erection that had Mrs. Hudson glancing away again, blushing. He stormed back to the bedroom to change, clothes flying about in his wake.

John sat up on the sofa, doing his best to straighten his hair. “May I point out,” he said to Mrs. Hudson, “that you advocated for this.” He gestured between him and the not-closed bedroom door, through which Sherlock was currently changing.

“Oh, you know I’m chuffed,” Mrs. Hudson said, patting at John’s shoulder. “Just. Keep the door closed, won’t you?”

“No promises,” Sherlock said, emerging from the bedroom. In under a minute, he had managed to transform himself from his between-cases uniform of unwashed pyjamas and mussed hair to a sleek, tailored suit. He looked as if he had been professionally styled just on the off-chance a gaggle of reporters would need to talk to him, and John wondered if he might actually be a superhero. Regardless, John thought, he would have to shag him later.

Mrs. Hudson trotted down the stairs before them, smiling and shaking her head. Sherlock adjusted the lapels on his suit as John grabbed his jacket. This bit was always dizzying—the click and strobe of the cameras, the overlapping slew of shouted questions, the suspense over wondering exactly when Sherlock would snap and try to make a reporter cry. No matter how much Sherlock insisted on hating it, he seemed right in his element, dazzling everyone with his genius while John stood at his side, trying to keep things in order as much as possible. Still, there was nowhere John would rather be than by Sherlock’s side in all the madness, permanently.

Sherlock stood by the door. His back was straight and he was a lean line, a firm, commanding presence to mystify the throng—quintessentially Sherlock Holmes. He looked towards John.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

John nodded. He reached out his hand, an offer. An offer for the moment, for the madness, for today, for tomorrow. For always.

Sherlock took it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! This was a fun fic to write, and I hope you all enjoy reading it! Big thanks to sherlock_is_actually_a_girls_name for the prompt!
> 
> I love you all in a warm, squishy way.
> 
> Hearts,
> 
> Arwa
> 
> I can be regularly found on Tumblr: https://arwamachine.tumblr.com/  
> I can be occasionally found on Twitter: https://twitter.com/ArwaMachine


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